


You Better Stop and Rebuild All Your Ruins

by rubychan05



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Emotional Infidelity, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-08 00:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3188216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubychan05/pseuds/rubychan05
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With their friendship already stretched to breaking point due to Watson's upcoming nuptials to Mary, a drunken mistake could be the end of everything. With Holmes' behaviour making things go from bad to worse, it takes a terrible event to make him realise what he's been missing all along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Like most epic romances, it started with a kiss.

It wasn’t a very romantic kiss: more a mashing together of lips than the gentle caressing movements novelists were so fond of writing about. It wasn’t planned, wasn’t the culmination of a grand quest that had brought them together, or the reaction to a near-death experience.

Perhaps less an epic romance than the whiskey fuelled fumbles of two drunkards, then.

The night had begun as any other might have for Holmes and Watson. Upon hearing the details of Lestrade’s latest uncatchable killer, it had taken Holmes precisely three hours and forty two minutes to deduce, locate, and apprehend said murderer. Once Lestrade had grudgingly given his thanks and led the villain away, Watson had suggested that they follow through with their original plan of going to see _The Magic Flute_ at the opera house. After all, curtain up wasn’t for another hour and a half: plenty of time to don evening wear and make themselves presentable. There was also the added incentive of seeing Maria La Belle in the role of Pamina, something that Watson knew Holmes had been looking forward to for quite some time.

It had taken only one glance at Holmes’ distracted manner, however, to realise that they wouldn’t be going anywhere tonight except for the boxing ring. It was a depressingly frequent occurrence after a case – the mixture of high speed chases and proving his superior intellect often combined to give Holmes an irrepressible adrenaline high – one that never failed to test the very limits of Watson’s willpower. For a gambler such as himself, the crowded ringside area was an intoxicating experience that often left him breathless with the effort to resist making his own bets. Holmes may have kept his cheque book and notes locked in his drawer, but that didn’t mean that Watson’s loose change never attempted to burn a hole through his pocket. And regardless of the miniscule size of any bet he would be able to place, Watson was very much aware of the dangers of a slippery slope.

True, he could have simply returned to Baker Street alone and left Holmes to it. Indeed, at the beginning of their acquaintance he had usually done so, only to find himself restless and anxious, unable to sleep until he knew that Holmes had returned safely, if not in one piece. Over the years the concern had deepened, from both his own increasingly strong friendship with Holmes and Holmes’ decreasing care for his own wellbeing. Watson had eventually been forced to accept that the temptation of the betting pool was far less stressful than waiting up in the sitting room, medical bag ready for whatever wound Holmes returned with.

So he gritted his teeth instead and went to watch Holmes work out his urges on anyone foolish enough to accept his challenge. He found it strangely exciting to watch Holmes dancing round the ring, taunting his opponent before landing the devastating set of blows that would put him out of action for a month. For a man who spent the majority of the time inside his own head, Holmes made a riveting sight to behold when he actually decided to get physical and Watson often found himself oddly captivated.

The night had proven successful for Holmes who, as well as winning all his matches, had somehow managed to escape without any injury worse than a bruised knee. He’d tumbled out of the ring and straight into Watson’s waiting arms, laughing jovially and clapping the doctor about the shoulders, loudly remarking about his last opponent’s poor skill and pretending he didn’t know the man was right behind him. Watson had reprimanded him, but been unable to stop the damn smirk that so frequently gave him away as Holmes’ partner in crime.

Not that you could really hide anything from Holmes anyway.

At Holmes’ insistence they had found their way into the nearest dive of a bar to celebrate his victory, and from that point on things had begun to blur. One whiskey had turned into two, which had turned into two doubles, and before Watson fully realised it he was in the middle of a competition with Holmes to see who could drink the most. Logically, he knew that the winner would always be Holmes – the man had far too much experience in imbibing alcohol to lose, after all – but in all honesty he didn’t really care that much.

On some level he had been aware that this was perhaps the last night that he and Holmes would share a night at the ring and nearest pub. He had already moved most of his possessions into his new lodgings, and was slowly decreasing the amount of cases he worked on with Holmes. And it would be unlikely that he could continue to frequent such low places once married to Mary, for fear of worrying her. So it hadn’t seemed such a bad thing to invest himself in a competition he already knew he would lose.

They’d been kicked out at closing time, giggling and stumbling about and generally making complete asses out of themselves. The pub owner had merely snorted and rolled his eyes, slamming the door perhaps a little harder than necessary after them. It was possible that Holmes’ attempt to dance an Irish jig on the bar, and the subsequent smashed glasses his inevitable fall had caused, hadn’t gone over well.

Slinging arms round shoulders in a precarious attempt to hold each other up, they’d staggered their way down the street, pausing at the corner to allow Watson to blink blearily at the sign on the corner.

“Mul…Mul…Mulready Street?” He’d guessed hesitantly, unable to quite work out the words with his blurry vision. Holmes had snorted, burying his head in Watson’s shoulder and laughing.

“Don’t you know where we are, Watson?” Holmes’ voice had been mocking but not cutting, and Watson had smiled vaguely in his direction, steering them to the right.

“You don’t either. We’ll have an adventure!” He’d decided and Holmes had clearly liked that idea judging from the amount of excited cheering his words had produced.

“Why Holmes, I do believe you’re drunk.” Watson had said with the extreme care of one who knows they themselves have drunk too much, only to let out an oof of surprise as Holmes swung them both into an alley and pinned Watson up against the wall. Holmes had leaned in close, lips mere inches away from Watson’s – inappropriately close, even for them – and stared into his eyes before letting out a crow of triumph.

“Aha, dilated eyes! My dear Watson, it’s a case of the kettle calling the pot black.” A pause. “I mean the pottle calling the kot black. I mean…you know what I mean.”

Watson had smiled at Holmes’ muddled attempts and for a moment it had just been the two of them, alone in their own world and grinning like the idiots Mrs Hudson occasionally thought they were. Holmes had shivered in the cold night air and Watson had automatically pulled him closer, blinking as the change in positions brought their mouths so near to each other that they could feel the other's breath. Their noses had brushed and Watson had giggled, staring deep into Holmes’ eyes because he was suddenly sure that in this moment he’d finally be able to see what made the Great Detective tick. Holmes had shifted absently, and they’d both stilled as they slowly became aware of exactly what was in contact.

Then suddenly lips were pressed against lips, mouths moving hungrily as if trying to consume the other, hands moving to grab, grope, knead and everything else that a drink-soaked, lust clouded brain wants to do. Watson had been dimly aware of someone groaning and having no idea who had done so, hadn’t particularly cared as long as Holmes’ tongue kept moving against his own like that.

A dog had barked in the distance and they’d started apart, Holmes overbalancing and falling to the ground. Watson had leant against the wall, panting for breath, grinning as Holmes sat up and blinked dazedly around, clearly unsure what had exactly happened. After quite a few attempts that nearly had them both over, Watson had finally managed to pull Holmes to his feet, at which point they’d just paused, trying to remember what they’d been doing.

“Home, Holmes?” Watson had suggested, laughing at how funny the phrase sounded, and Holmes had chuckled and shrugged.

“We march onwards then!” He’d proclaimed and they’d gamely set off down the road, oblivious to the fact that they were now walking in the opposite direction to before.

It had taken Holmes precisely three hours and forty two minutes to deduce, locate, and apprehend the murderer.

It took them roughly four hours and ten minutes to get back to Baker Street, where after making enough noise to wake the dead (or at least poor Mrs Hudson, who’d promptly emerged onto the landing to reprimand them most severely), they’d parted company and made for their separate bedrooms as if nothing had happened.

Things were slightly more strained in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

Watson was aware of only two things when he first woke up. Firstly, that he had what was quite possibly the worst headache he’d ever had, irrefutable proof that cheap whiskey was always a terrible idea.

Secondly, that he had kissed Holmes last night.

Groaning, he buried his head in his hands, wishing to God that this last point was nothing more than the erroneous imaginings of a man still drunk. Except that he was a good enough doctor to realise exactly how sober he was and far too realistic a man to attempt to fool himself.

God, what had they done? Bad enough that they had kissed, but they’d done it in public, where anyone could see them. Holmes may have been adept at hiding his face in all those newspaper pictures, but he himself had been in enough to be near instantly recognisable to any London citizen. What if someone informed the police? God, what if someone informed Mary?

It was all over. His good reputation, his practice, his impending marriage, his friendship with Holmes…all gone. Years to build, mere moments to destroy.

No. Not destroyed. If someone had reported him to the police, they’d have been knocking on the door by now: judging from the lightness of the room, he’d slept far longer than usual. And there had been no loud visits from Mary or a related party – even had Holmes spent the morning in a similar stupor, Mrs Hudson would surely have woken him to sort out the disturbance.

That just left Holmes then.

Groaning, he rolled out of bed and held onto the wardrobe for dear life as he waited for the room to stop spinning. Once sure he was going to keep down last night’s ham and leek pie, he dressed as quickly as he could manage in his state and grabbed his cane, wincing as he began the walk downstairs. Normally it wasn’t a problem for him, but cases that involved large amounts of running often left his bad leg stiff and painful the next day, making the short flight of stairs down to the sitting room an agonisingly long journey.

Holmes was already up when Watson entered the room, sitting in his favourite armchair and seemingly engrossed in the day’s paper. Unlike Watson he hadn’t bothered to dress, remaining in nightshirt and dressing gown, hair unbrushed and unkempt.

A tray with two cups sat on the small table. One was empty, but the other had been left untouched.

“Nanny brought us up some warm milk for the hangover.” Holmes said, not looking up from the Obituaries column. “At least, it was warm half an hour ago. It’s very unlike you not to wake with the larks.”

Watson blinked, having steeled himself for a confrontation and now left floundering, unsure what to do or say.

“It’s hard to wake with the larks when I went to bed with them.” He finally settled on, moving to the spare chair and picking up his own cup of milk. He made a face at the taste; it was no longer warm, but it wasn’t cold either. Tepid milk left much to be desired.

“I managed it.” Holmes sounded smug behind his paper and Watson felt the sudden urge to tear it out of his hands just so he could see Holmes’ expression. Were they not meant to talk about this? Were they just going to let it lie, an open wound that would fester between them and leave their relationship irreparable?

As much as he wanted to forget last night had ever happened, Watson knew it had to be addressed if he wanted them to remain friends, especially since he was already putting distance between them by moving in with Mary.

“Yes, well…I suspect that you didn’t even go to sleep. I know you, Holmes – you just spent the night reading your criminology books again, didn’t you?” He said instead, his nerves failing him at the last minute. Holmes shrugged, folding his newspaper down and dropping it onto the side table. Stretching, he relaxed back into his chair, regarding Watson with amused eyes.

“And what if I did? I must keep up with the latest developments if I’m to carry on catching criminals for the Yard’s…ahem…finest.”

“Not at the expense of your health.”

“Yet here I sit, perfectly fine.”

“Until you crash later today and it’s up to me to get you into bed.”

Holmes snorted, raising a sarcastic eyebrow.

“And here I thought you were a fine upstanding believer in morality, Watson. Though I suppose certain…happenings...last night should have disabused me of that notion earlier.”

“We…we should talk about this.” Watson managed finally, keeping a death grip on his cane. Holmes blinked, looking genuinely astonished at Watson’s suggestion.

“What on earth is there to talk about, old boy? We were both drunk, and merely did what any drunken man would do in the situation – seek out the nearest warm body.”

“Exactly…we sought out each other. Not some cheap harlot or woman of low morals.”

“A case of proximity, nothing more.”

“We’re both men!”

“An astute observation Watson, but I fail to see how it’s relevant. As I said, it was a simple case of inebriation and proximity, nothing more. Had we been out with others, I have no doubt we would merely have grabbed the nearest person in the group.”

Watson stared at him, knuckles white on his cane and hands trembling as he tried to comprehend how Holmes could be taking this all so lightly. Watson would never have referred to himself as a particularly God-fearing man – he’d seen far too much horror in Afghanistan to maintain the faith he’d had as a child – but last night’s kiss was unnatural in every way, an affront to everything society stood for.

And yet to Holmes, it was nothing more than an illicit fumbling brought on by too much drink. The idea of Holmes classing it as such made his stomach twist, though this reaction seemed unusual for mere disgust at his lack of concern.

“Holmes…how can you be so calm about this?” He questioned, feeling more than a little lost. “I know you care little for society, but…”

“My dear Watson…romantic relations between men may not be accepted within society, but that doesn’t mean that men don’t feel those urges. Attraction can never be unnatural – it is only by society’s reasoning that such interactions become wrong.” Holmes murmured, his eyes dark and serious.

For a moment, Watson paused. Had he not known all too well of Holmes’ lingering fascination with Irene Adler, he might have wondered if Holmes himself was a deviant. But that was ridiculous, surely. Just because the man shunned the fairer sex in favour of intellectualism, that didn’t mean he dallied with men.

“But…I…” He stumbled over his words in his confusion, and Holmes sighed.

“Watson…if I know you at all, I’m right in assuming that you’re far more concerned over the fate of our friendship and your impending nuptials with Mary than any affront to society. Stop forcing yourself to think like a respectable citizen and let’s get down to the core of the issue before Mrs Hudson returns and hears something she’s best not hearing.”

Watson swallowed. As always, Holmes was right. His worries about two men kissing were nothing compared to his concern about Holmes. The idea of their relationship spoiling was far more distressing than any fears he may have over his immortal soul.

“Then what…”

“Relax, Watson. You’re far from the first man to kiss a friend and then regret it later. Our friendship will hold steady. You’ve seen me at my worst and we have recovered. We will recover from this too.” Holmes said calmly.

Watson was beginning to get irritated now. Throughout all of this, Holmes had been very good at explaining how Watson felt, how they’d recover from what Watson had done. Yet he’d come nowhere near to accepting any share of the blame or hinting how he himself felt.

“I think you’re forgetting something, Holmes.” He said icily, through gritted teeth. “I’m not the only one who kissed someone last night.”

“Hmm?”

“You keep shifting the focus onto me. You haven’t acknowledged your own part in it yet.”

Holmes sighed, shaking his head in a patronising fashion that had Watson’s hackles rising.

“I’d have thought that was obvious. Now can we please move on from this and go about our daily lives?”

“Holmes…you say it was because of the drink, but I’ve seen you worse for wear before and you’ve never showed the slightest hint of interest towards anyone. Something was different last night.”

“By your reckoning, it was different for you too. You have not sought out anyone since your engagement to Mary.”

Watson hesitated, not quite sure how to pursue his argument now without turning the focus back to himself. Holmes smirked at him, rising from the chair and moving to the window, gazing out on the daily bustle of Baker Street.

“Maybe it was. Different, I mean.” He said haltingly, hoping to God that Holmes wasn’t going to take this the wrong way. “I mean, it was probably our last night drinking together, emotions are bound to have been running high…”

Holmes sighed again, a huff of air that betrayed a growing exasperation with the conversation.

“For the last time Watson, it was meaningless. Alcohol fuelled graspings, nothing more.”

“Stop dismissing it so easily!” Watson barked, infuriated when Holmes didn’t even deign to turn around and face him. “Look at me, Holmes. Look at me!”

Holmes didn’t.

“If you’re going to act like one of Mary’s spoiled charges and demand attention like that, then I’m leaving.” Holmes announced, turning in the direction of his bedroom. Watson snarled, bounding to his feet and seizing Holmes’ arm, relishing the look of shock on his friend’s face at the sudden contact.

“I think you’re running away, Holmes. I think that it did mean something to you.” Watson guessed. “You keep saying it’s nothing, but I don’t believe you.”

“Perhaps what you should be asking yourself is not whether it meant something to me, but why exactly you want it to have so badly.” Holmes said quietly, raising his eyes to meet Watson’s and pinning him there with his steady gaze.

“What?”

“Did it mean something to you, Watson?”

Watson fumbled for an answer, the hand on Holmes’ elbow trembling. Against his will, his gaze shifted for a moment, eyes flicking down to rest on Holmes’ lips. They were dry and bitten, far from perfect, yet Watson was suddenly very much aware that these were the same lips he had been kissing last night.

Suddenly coming back to himself, he wrestled his gaze back up, only to get a sinking feeling at the familiar look of interest in Holmes’ eyes. It was the expression Holmes always pulled when he’d found something that piqued his curiosity, an expression that promised long hours of the detective smoking his pipe and puzzling his way through every angle until he had the answer.

He swallowed, wanting to ask Holmes exactly what he’d seen, but unable to find the courage. Holmes smiled slightly, shifting forwards, and Watson felt his lips parting in what was presumably an attempt to vocalise his question, a sudden spike of adrenalin making him suddenly breathless.

“Holmes…” He choked out brokenly, and Holmes’ smile widened. Watson flinched as Holmes raised a hand, shivering when instead of striking at him it merely cupped his cheek. A flush of heat spread through his face and before he even realised what he was doing his eyelids had fluttered shut, the sudden darkness making his unsteady breathing seem loud and intrusive.

“H…”

“Oh!” The sudden exclamation startled Watson, breaking him out of the daze he seemed to have fallen into. Opening his eyes, his gaze immediately fell on a very uncomfortable looking Mrs Hudson, whose mouth was open in an uncharacteristically unseeming fashion and whose cheeks were suffused with a brilliant red.

Holmes’ fingers twitched against his skin and belatedly Watson realised exactly what this must look like. He jerked backwards hurriedly, but knew that the damage had already been done.

“Mrs Hudson!” He gasped out, fighting for breath in a room that suddenly seemed airless. “We were just…I was…I mean…”

“What Watson here is trying to say, Nanny,” Holmes interrupted smoothly, “is that he stumbled and knocked his head when he was getting up. I was endeavouring to find any damage he had caused himself when you walked in – I may not be a doctor, but I can still work my way around a bump on the head.”

“Oh, Dr Watson!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed, hastily putting down her empty tray and bustling over, any initial suspicions seemingly forgotten. “Are you alright? You’re not dizzy are you?”

Placing her hands on his neck, she gently tilted his head first one way then the other, carefully inspecting him for sign of injury. Watson smiled to himself, touched by their landlady’s concern.

“I’m perfectly fine, Mrs Hudson.” He reassured her, bowing his head to her in thanks as she withdrew. “It was a minor knock. Holmes just overreacted…you know how he can be.”

Mrs Hudson huffed in amusement, eyes twinkling as she turned to where Holmes had been standing.

“Indeed I do. A right worr - oh. He’s gone.”

Watson blinked, suddenly aware that Holmes had somehow managed to leave the room without alerting either Mrs Hudson or himself. A quick glance at Holmes’ bedroom door found it now shut and Watson resigned himself to that conversation being over. There was no chance of Holmes emerging from there any time soon: when he was feeling petty, he could hide in his room for days at a time.

He helped Mrs Hudson with the cups, holding the door open for her as she carried the used crockery away for washing. As the door swung shut behind her, he glanced at Holmes’ door and bit his lip, wondering whether to barge in and attempt a continuation of their conversation.

Instead, he sighed and settled down to read the newspaper.


	3. Chapter 3

The kiss wasn’t mentioned again. Not by Holmes, who had seemed annoyed enough by their discussion of it the first time round. And certainly not by Watson, whose nerves failed him every time he attempted to bring it up. Instead, he would find himself gaping like some obscene fish, his words stumbling over one another until they rearranged themselves into some painfully polite comment about the weather.

At times like those, Holmes would watch Watson carefully, eyes dark and wary, face expressionless.

The easy banter that had flowed between them these last few years dried up, seemingly overnight. Conversation became stilted, impersonal; a maze of traps and sleeping monsters that had to be navigated with care. Sometimes, they found themselves sharing the sitting room in a silence that was entirely awkward rather than companionable. Occasionally the tension got too much for Watson and he would end up retreating upstairs to his own room with the feeble excuse of his leg acting up again.

All in all, it was a particularly unsatisfactory arrangement, one that Watson had hoped to avoid by dragging their drunken mistake into the cold light of day.

Perhaps, in hindsight, not as clever a move as he had felt it to be at the time.

What made it even worse was that they were being obvious about it. Mrs Hudson had started making vague, murmured comments about the benefits of getting on with your fellow man in a world like this and the Irregulars had started giving him suspicious glances whenever they came to see Holmes, as if certain that the blame for whatever had occurred between them must fall squarely on his shoulders.

Christ, even Lestrade had noticed the sudden cooling of their friendship and when Lestrade picked up on something it must be obvious.

Holmes had been called to the scene of a murder – Lord Harold’s valet had been found lying dead in the kitchen, a carving knife in his back – and Watson had chosen to tag along in case his medical expertise was required. Holmes had seemed unusually reluctant to accept his offer of help and the cab journey there had been tense, silent except for the drumbeat of Holmes’ fingers against the seat.

Watson had dimly noticed that Holmes’ outfit was entirely his own. Like the easy friendship they’d once shared, their bartering system seemed to have died a quick but painful death. It was…unsettling…not seeing Holmes in at least one item of Watson’s clothing.

They’d examined the body together quickly, fingers never touching as they brushed over the corpse’s clothing, eyes never meeting as they glanced up at Lestrade to ask a question. Lestrade had watched them both, a puzzled frown on his face that only grew when the pair stood up and kept a clear distance from each other.

“Here,” He’d finally said as they watched the scullery maid being led away by the police (she had, as Holmes had correctly guessed from the nearby potato peelings and the fact that the valet had been stabbed between the 5th and 6th vertebrae, been carrying his baby after an illicit love affair and flown into a rage at his refusing to accept responsibility), “is something going on between you two?”

Holmes and Watson had both blinked, sneaking a glance at the other only to look away sharply when their eyes actually met.

“I don’t know what you’re on about, Lestrade. Perhaps you’re better off sticking to solving crime than solving personal problems.” Holmes had exclaimed breezily, but Lestrade hadn’t been so easily put off and had merely glared at Holmes through narrowed eyes.

“You can call me a fool as much as you like, Holmes – Lord knows I’m not always the quickest on the uptake, especially when you’re involved – but I’m not blind. I can see as well as the next man that you and Dr. Watson aren’t making eye contact.”

Holmes had shrugged, throwing a casual arm around Watson’s shoulders and guiding him away from the crime scene.

“Think what you want, Lestrade.” He’d called back over his shoulder. “But you’ll find no problems here.”

He’d removed his arm once they were out of sight, jerking away as if scalded.

Watson’s shoulders had burned with the memory of his touch for the rest of the night, so hungry his body was for a return to their old, tactile friendship. Once, Holmes had thought nothing of clapping him on the back after a case well done, or clinging onto his arm for support after some ruffian had got his kneecap with a well aimed throwing knife. That had all changed now.

What infuriated Watson was that he didn’t know whether Holmes had stopped the touching because he wanted to, or out of some misjudged sense of honour towards Watson, who had reacted so strongly after their kiss. And it was hardly something he could bring up in conversation – it would be entirely pathetic to demand that Holmes start touching him again, as if he were a lonely puppy whining for affection from his master.

He hadn’t even realised he liked Holmes touching him like that until those touches had stopped. It was just one of many things about their friendship that he had noticed since things had changed between them.

Like the fact that they had always spent case-free Sunday afternoons strolling through Regent’s Park together, a tradition that Watson had never really acknowledged until the feeling of emptiness he’d had at realising that Holmes had gone out without him.

Or that Holmes had provided a welcome sanctuary to return to after spending the afternoon discussing floral arrangements for the wedding with Mary and her mother. Holmes had always been waiting for Watson to tiredly drag himself in, a witty quip on hand to distract him from his temporary emasculation. Despite, or perhaps even because of, Holmes’ dislike of Watson’s upcoming marriage to Mary, the detective had always made it his job to see that Watson forgot all about daffodils and roses within an hour of him returning home.

Or, something that had been a rather depressing thing for Watson to notice, exactly how much time he’d spent in the sole company of Holmes. Without Holmes to rely on for social outings, Watson was at a loss. He’d never enjoyed his club as much as other patrons appeared to and he could count on one hand the number of times he had dined out with someone other than Holmes. In the end he’d resorted to taking Mary out for long walks – in plain sight of others obviously, he had no wish to damage her reputation – and meals out, which had worked out fine until Mary had pointed out that they had the rest of their lives to spend together, they didn’t need to cram their whole marriage into a few weeks now.

And it hadn’t just been their friendship that Watson had been seeing differently. He’d noticed new things about Holmes too.

He’d never noticed the way Holmes tended to bite his lip whilst doing experiments, worrying at it until the flesh turned red and swollen. Or how he tended to arch his back like a cat in order to work the tension out after a long sleepless night.

Yet that had been nothing compared to his sudden revelation as he watched Holmes play the violin. The evening’s piece had been a rather melancholy one, a slow, sweet tune that had made a lump rise in Watson’s throat and his stomach clench. He’d watched from his chair as Holmes stood at the open window, one foot resting casually on the sill, a look of intense concentration upon his face as he put on an impromptu concert for the passers-by.

Watson had drunk in the sight, relishing what had become a rare treat since his and Holmes’ friendship had thawed. He’d long believed that times like these were the closest the detective came to truly letting his guard down whilst sober, and knowing that Holmes felt he was still able to play in front of him reassured Watson somewhat. It was a sign, perhaps, that this gulf between them could be breached, that they could once more become the close-knit duo so feared by criminals throughout London.

He’d been pondering whether he felt confident enough to request some Chausson when his gaze had fallen upon Holmes’ fingers and Watson’s breath had caught.

They were by no means perfect – years of delving into London’s underworld and carrying out experiments with acidic compounds had left the skin calloused and broken – but they were long and slender, and Watson had watched their quick movements over the strings with a certain sense of awe. Holmes had the hands of an artist, and Watson had suddenly found himself imagining how agile they must be in other situations.

Like in the bedroom.

The thought had made him flush a brilliant red, but he had been unable to let that image go despite himself. Any woman in London would have been more than happy to let those rough fingertips glide over her naked flesh, should the detective show an actual interest. To have those talented fingers stroke bare skin, play with chest hair in a promise of things to come…

Watson’s thoughts had screeched to a halt as he realised exactly what he was thinking and with a garbled excuse he’d fled upstairs, slamming his bedroom door shut and leaning against it in a useless attempt to catch his breath.

He’d found himself remembering how Holmes’ hands had wandered during their drunken kiss. How those clever fingers had slipped between the buttons of his shirt to wind themselves in the hair there, tugging playfully as Holmes pillaged his mouth. And with a groan, Watson had realised that he was in far more trouble than he’d realised.

Things between him and Holmes had only grown more frosty since and Watson had no doubt that it was his own fault. After his startling realisation, he’d started avoiding Holmes with much the same fervour as his friend had been putting into avoiding him. What little conversation had remained between them dried up and Watson had found himself unable to look Holmes in the eye anymore without blushing.

Immature and petty perhaps, but then again Watson wasn’t quite sure that the rules of etiquette applied when you discovered after thirty-something years that you were not only a deviant, but also attracted to your best friend. It was baffling. He hadn’t woken up to the fact that he’d been unconsciously living a lie for society all this time – he still thought Mary was beautiful and looked forward to their wedding night – and he couldn’t remember ever having harboured such thoughts about Holmes before. Or indeed any other man.

He and Holmes shared a connection of course. Their friendship had proven to be unusually deep for two men rooming out of convenience and Watson had often found himself striving for Holmes’ approval. But that didn’t mean anything, surely? It was perfectly normal for flatmates to grow fond of each other and strike up a worthwhile connection – it happened all the time at university, after all.

Yet Watson found himself unable to deny that he’d felt pulled to Holmes from the very beginning and knew that he couldn’t keep trying (and failing) to fool himself. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t felt an attraction towards any other men. The point was that he did feel attracted to Holmes and had probably been - Watson blanched, unable to believe that he was applying such a womanly phrase to himself – just that little bit in love with him this entire time. He certainly hadn’t written up all those cases just for _The Strand_ ’s avid readers.

It was quite unfair, he thought resentfully, that Holmes got to hide in his work whilst Watson wrestled with questions of conscience and the heart.

Truthfully, he had no idea how to bring his friendship with Holmes back to an even keel now that he had had this unsettling revelation. A drunken kiss? Immensely embarrassing and discomfiting, but ultimately an obstacle that would have been passable. A wholly inappropriate set of feelings on his side? He would be lucky if he could gather the courage to face Holmes as an equal ever again. Perhaps it really was for the best that he was moving out soon.

Watson had a feeling that Holmes could sense that something had changed. He kept feeling Holmes’ eyes burning holes into his back from across the room, only to find his friend thoroughly immersed in the day’s paper when he turned back round. Or coming down to breakfast only to find Holmes absent and Watson’s case notes scattered haphazardly across the room.

He found out from Mary that Holmes had even been to her house. Not to see her, naturally – he had somehow managed to deftly sidestep all of Watson’s previous attempts to introduce Mary to him – but to interrogate the household staff on Mary’s comings and goings and whether her verbally agreed engagement to Watson held firm.

Clearly he had to reconcile with Holmes soon, or all his remaining secrets would soon be uncovered. And bohemian or not, Watson just couldn’t see Holmes reacting favourably to the idea of sharing quarters with a man who was possibly interested in sodomising him.

Sodomising. Now there was a viciously unsettling word. It made Watson balk.

Anxious to throw Holmes off the scent of information being withheld from him, Watson began to spend more time with the detective, showing interest in his cases again and making his customary witty remarks whilst reading the paper. Holmes remained suspicious, but their friendship seemed to be on the mend, if a little sharper and more brittle than before.

Then someone started murdering the heiresses to some of London’s wealthiest families and all else was forgotten in the rush to apprehend him. Caught up in the thrill of the chase, it was almost as though there had never been any rift between them in the first place. Working day and night, they sought to uncover a pattern, a clue, some sort of indication as to where their perpetrator was going to strike next. Five bodies were found in crypts, surrounded by the remnants of occult rituals, and the family that had hired Holmes began piling on the pressure, understandably concerned that their abducted daughter was to become the sixth victim.

By the time they had located the killer’s newest lair, Watson was able to push his newfound attraction to the back of his mind and pretend that he’d never discovered it.

Luck, or rather Holmes’ ingenuity, was with them, and they not only managed to interrupt the ritual in time to save the girl, but also capture Blackwood for Lestrade. The case was a success and they returned to Baker Street for a celebratory opening of the one bottle of whiskey Holmes had managed to keep for a special occasion. By the time they arrived a messenger boy was waiting for them with news from the rescued girl’s father; he was extremely grateful that his daughter had been saved from certain death, and to show his gratitude would be paying them near triple Holmes’ usual rate.

Life was good again.

And then Watson had to go and screw it up by announcing that this was to be his last case with Holmes. Period.

To be fair, he hadn’t meant to. He’d been mulling the idea over all the way back in the carriage, wondering if it wasn’t perhaps a good idea to retire from the business on a high. He liked the idea of his final case being acknowledged as a roaring success, as opposed to a befuddled mess.

Watson had just finished making his decision when Holmes jovially held up his own glass in a toast devoted to their future successes and before Watson really realised what he was saying the words just slipped out.

A deathly silence fell over the room as Holmes’ glass lowered. Even the old grandfather clock in the corner seemed to have momentarily stopped ticking.

“Well then. I guess that’s it.” Holmes said icily, the warm contentment fading from his eyes.

“Holmes?”

“Well, you’ve already said that we’ve had our last night out drinking together. And if I understand correctly, you’ve just decided that tonight’s case is to be our last as a team. Just let me ask you this, Watson…what else is there?”

“I’m sorry?” Watson asked, frowning slightly in confusion.

“If we are to stop the nights out and cases, what exactly do you suppose will be left in this friendship?”

“For God’s sake Holmes, we’ll still share a flat…”

“In case you’ve forgotten, you’ll be leaving to marry the lovely Mary in just over three months.” Holmes interrupted. Watson rolled his eyes, sighing.

“I’m moving a few streets away, not leaving the country. We can still have dinner, go to the opera…”

“And I suppose I’m meant to schedule my free time to correspond with when Mary will so graciously allow you to leave her side for the night?” Holmes jeered. Watson glared at him, a hot flash of rage shooting through him.

“What exactly is your problem with her?! You haven’t even met her yet and all you ever do is try to sabotage our relationship!” He snarled. Holmes snorted, waving a hand in a gesture that could mean both everything and nothing.

“I don’t need to. I know everything I need to make a judgement, and I already know that I won’t like her. She sounds…boring. You’ll be surrounded by doilies and china figurines before you know it.”

“China fig…Holmes! You let your imagination run away with you!”

“Far better than being one of society’s mannequins, pretty and vapid.” Holmes muttered, throwing himself back into his chair and crossing his arms like a petulant child. Watson gritted his teeth, about to let rip, when he suddenly realised exactly what was going on.

Holmes _was_ a petulant child sometimes. He hated when people touched his things, or didn’t take him seriously. He got upset when he was ignored. He often found himself bored, unable to occupy his own time.

And most of all, he hated having things stolen from him.

Watson chuckled, his amusement only growing as Holmes regarded him suspiciously.

“What are you laughing at?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Then don’t.” Watson shrugged. “But I want you to know that I’m not just going to abandon you after I marry Mary. I will be needing _some_ male company after all, and Mary’s brother is a dreadful boor.”

Holmes stared at him for a moment, before letting a small smile grace his lips.

“Perhaps you should introduce him to Inspector Lestrade then.” He mused and Watson laughed.

“Perhaps. But I’m not sure even Lestrade deserves that.”

* * *

The next three months passed in a blur of patients and planning for Watson. When he wasn’t carrying out his practice, he was helping Mary arrange the wedding. When he wasn’t arranging the wedding, he was making preparations to move into his new lodgings. It suddenly seemed like he had very little free time to himself and he privately hoped to God that this wasn’t what actually being married was going to be like.

There had been no more huge disagreements with Holmes since Blackwood’s capture. To be sure, Holmes often came out with disparaging remarks about Mary, but Watson had learned to ignore them in much the same way as he ignored Holmes experimenting on Gladstone. It was an inconvenience, and very annoying, but as long as no one got hurt Watson was prepared to turn the other cheek.

Their friendship hadn’t been fully repaired – there were still arguments and moments of tense wariness between them – but overall things were back to normal.

Except for the increasingly frequent flashes of attraction Watson felt towards Holmes. To his immense annoyance Holmes’ magnetism only seemed to have increased since Watson had fully realised his feelings, and although he remained able to bury those feelings in front of Holmes it was still fairly disconcerting to get distracted in the middle of a conversation because Holmes had just licked his lips.

Life, he reflected, was horribly unfair.

Speaking of Holmes, the little free time Watson did manage to procure seemed to be mainly spent on making sure the detective didn’t slip back into his cocaine addiction. So far, he’d succeeded in substituting drink for drugs and whilst this still wasn’t entirely healthy Watson remained thankful for small mercies. Without a case Holmes became lethargic and senseless, unable to occupy his massive brain, and all too many times Watson had had to take care of the fallout after Holmes resorted to his seven percent solution.

Holmes may have liked to mock Watson for his gambling habit, but at least Watson’s problem didn’t leave people searching desperately for a pulse upon finding him pale and still in his chair.

So he tricked Holmes into meeting Mary – a ploy he’d personally thought was rather clever seeing as it killed two birds with one stone. And that was when everything had started to go horribly wrong.

Holmes was his usual insufferable self. Mary threw her drink. And just when Watson thought things couldn’t get any worse, Blackwood rose from the dead.

The next few days were probably some of the worst in Watson’s entire life. First Adler returned, leaving Watson feeling thoroughly depressed for reasons he didn’t want to examine too closely. Then they were arrested for the destruction of an entire ship, a humiliating experience that made Watson cringe at the memory of Mary having to bail him out.

Then as if that wasn’t enough already, he was blown sky high by Blackwood’s explosives.

Hearing the snick of the safety disconnecting, Watson instantly realised what was happening. For a moment he was back in Afghanistan, hearing the cut-short screams of his comrades as they unwittingly stumbled into one of the enemy’s traps. Then he was back in the present, stretching out a hand in warning, desperate to stop Holmes sharing his fate.

There was just time enough to see horrified realisation cross Holmes’s face and then the barrels were exploding. Roaring fire surrounded him, the shockwaves of multiple explosions buffeting him off his feet. He was dimly aware of a searing agony in his shoulder as shrapnel struck him and then the next explosion blew him clear away, leaving him in agonising pain in the crane’s basket but thankfully clear of the remaining explosions.

He came to in hospital, inexperienced hands removing the largest pieces of shrapnel from his shoulder and an unfamiliar German accent murmuring quiet reassurances. With his eyes closed, he might not have realised exactly who was looking after him had Holmes not slipped and revealed himself as he apologised desperately. Mary arrived before Watson could speak and her presence only made the guilt Watson was already feeling even worse.

Because his last thought hadn’t been for Mary when the barrels exploded. It had been a heartfelt regret that he’d never been honest with Holmes and revealed his true feelings.

It was why he left the hospital only a few hours after his operation, despite the doctor’s condemnations and Mary’s pleading. It was why he limped his way to the room Holmes rented above the boxing ring. It was why he tolerated Adler’s bolshy presence in order to carry out Holmes’ plan.

It was why he pulled Holmes out of the Thames despite the agony it caused him. It was why he fought off Blackwood’s associates even though every swing of his cane caused his shoulder to scream.

It was why he went back to Baker Street with Holmes rather than back to the hospital as he’d promised Mary. And lord knows he could have done with the laudanum they provided.

Mary sent a messenger on the third day, reminding Watson that their wedding was in a week’s time and that there would be no sympathy on her side if he spent the day in agony because of his stubborn pride. The words were harsh, but the splash of his favourite perfume on the letter let Watson know that she wasn’t really cross.

The thing was, he felt oddly reluctant to leave Holmes. Since nearly losing him to Blackwood’s explosives Holmes had been unusually clingy, even for him. He never left Watson’s side from the moment he woke up to the moment he went to sleep. He regularly insisted on helping Watson up to bed since his leg was hurting and once he’d even suggested that they temporarily swap rooms until Watson was feeling better; a momentous suggestion, as anyone who knew Holmes could attest.

It was touching that his accident had affected Holmes so, and Watson couldn’t help but lap up the attention. It was worth the wounds to know that Holmes cared. Of course, some measure of Holmes’ sudden need to be with Watson all the time was probably due to him leaving in seven days, but it was still flattering regardless.

Watson toyed with the idea of confessing his deviancy whilst Holmes continued to act so benevolently towards him, but couldn’t bring himself to potentially ruin such a blissfully peaceful time.

The days passed quickly, hours with Holmes feeling like mere minutes as they went to the opera and conversed well into the early hours of the morning. Mary had even been permitted to join them for tea a few times, and Watson was hopeful that this meant Holmes had finally got over his dislike of their impending nuptials.

He should have known that it was too easy.


	4. Chapter 4

On the eve of his and Mary’s wedding, Watson felt confident that everything was going to go according to plan the next day. His best suit had been carefully pressed by Mrs Hudson and was hanging behind his door. He’d even prepared a second suit for Holmes, just in case the detective changed his mind about attending. He wasn’t optimistic, but it was better to be prepared than caught off guard.

The local church had been booked. None of the guests had sent messages to say they were no longer attending. The Royal had been alerted to the fact that forty hungry wedding goers would be beating down its doors at 4pm. Everything was going to be perfect.

He was feeling so cheerful, in fact, that he thought nothing of expressing his positive thoughts to Holmes. Who looked less than impressed.

“Oh, you’re still going through with that?” Holmes casually replied. Watson frowned, his optimism dying a quick but painful death.

“Of course. What did you think the point of me making all these arrangements was for?”

“I have to admit, I thought you may have seen sense by now.” Holmes commented, taking a sip of his tea and allowing the corner of his mouth to lift up into a sardonic smile. “People get cold feet for a reason.”

“I am not having cold feet.”

“Then why haven’t you been going to visit Mary this past week? Why, the only reason I suggested she come over for tea was because the poor girl wouldn’t have seen you otherwise.” Holmes smirked.

Watson glared, tapping his fingers against his armrest in irritation.

“The only reason I didn’t go to see her was because you invited her here first! And besides, I was under the impression that you wanted me to stay here for the moment.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you’ve barely left my side since the Blackwood case! I was starting to wonder who’d been blown up!”

“First you complain that I’m not human, then you complain when I show some concern for a friend…what do you want from me, Watson? Hmm? What exactly do you want me to do?” Holmes barked.

Watson stiffened, Holmes’ question striking a little too close to home. What did he want from him? Something that even the greatest mind in London couldn’t offer him.

“For you to grow up would be a start.” Watson snarled. “The only reason you don’t want me marrying Mary is because you hate sharing your toys. But I’m a grown man, Holmes – I’ll say who deserves my time and who doesn’t!”

“Watson…” Holmes looked worried now, probably aware that he’d stepped over the line by bringing this up the night before Watson’s wedding. Watson just snorted in disgust, levering himself out of his chair and making for his bedroom stairs.

“Good night, Holmes.”

“Watson, I’m sorry. It was insensitive for me to bring this up ton…”

“Good night, Holmes.”

“I…”

“Holmes! It’s fine, so just let me go to bed!” Watson roared, refusing to look back and pulling open the door to the stairwell with more force than was strictly necessary.

“Watson, please!”

Watson froze, the hand clenched around the door knob slackening in shock as he turned to look at Holmes. He couldn’t remember the last time Holmes had begged him for anything, and certainly never in that tone. His friend was far too proud for that.

Holmes stared at him with panic-stricken eyes, breathing uneven as he took a few steps towards Watson.

“It’s not fine. I…it’s not fine, Watson, and I can’t pretend that it is.” Holmes said unsteadily, moving closer. “I can’t let you marry Mary tomorrow. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

Watson blinked, his stomach clenching nervously as Holmes came to a stop in front of him. Did Holmes know something about Mary? Something that he didn’t?

“Holmes…is there…is there something wrong? Something about Mary?”

A look of irritation crossed Holmes’ face, and before Watson knew what was happening he was being propelled back into the grandfather clock, pinned there by Holmes’ strong hands.

“Mary, Mary, Mary! Not everything is about her, Watson!”

“Then what…”

“I lied.” Holmes hissed, leaning close enough to make Watson swallow nervously, his grip on Watson’s shoulders bordering on painful.

“What? I don’t understand Holmes, what did you lie about?” Watson demanded in frustration. Holmes looked away for a moment.

“I lied about the kiss. It wasn’t just alcohol – it did mean something. At least to me.”

Watson stared, heart beating wildly in his chest. He wasn’t…Holmes couldn’t mean that…Taking in his stunned look, Holmes chuckled.

“Yes, Watson. I mean exactly what you think I mean.” He said, and covered Watson’s mouth with his own. It wasn’t exactly the smoothest kiss Watson had ever had – their noses were mashed together and Holmes had bumped his chin pretty hard on the way in – but he found his mouth opening despite himself, a distant groan rumbling through him as Holmes’ tongue slipped inside. It wasn’t anything like that drunken kiss they’d shared. That had been good, yes, but this was somehow more than that, like something that Watson had been wanting forever without even realising.

Reality came crashing down on him as he felt Holmes’ hands slip down to squeeze his behind and Watson suddenly realised to his horror that at some point he’d wound his fingers in Holmes' hair, pulling him closer.

And oh God, he was hard.

“N…no.” He said weakly, tearing his mouth away from Holmes and pushing him back. “We…I…we can’t.”

Holmes chuckled breathlessly, merely moving in for another kiss and frowning when Watson dodged him.

“Why not, Watson? Do you think me blind? I’ve solved cases by examining different types of dirt on furniture; did you really think I hadn’t noticed the way you’ve been looking at me?”

Watson swallowed, flushing at how transparent he’d been. And all along he’d thought he was keeping it secret…

“I kept waiting for you to make a move.” Holmes continued, leaning closer to nuzzle Watson’s neck. “For you to take what you wanted. But all you ever talked about was Mary this, and Mary that. And I realised you were never going to take the first step.”

“N…oh!” Watson shivered as Holmes nipped at the tendon, hands rising to grip Holmes’ arms despite himself. “We can’t do this Holmes. We can’t do this to Mary.”

“What’s worse? Trapping her in a loveless marriage, or letting her find true happiness with someone else?”

“But I do love her.”

“As much as you love me?”

Watson bit his lip, thoughts whirling. He did care about Mary, he really did. He honestly loved her, and would be proud to call her his wife. And yet…and yet he couldn’t help feeling that a life with her would never be as invigorating as a life with Holmes. There would be love, yes. But no challenge, no urge to prove himself or throw himself into London’s darkest corners for no other reason than the adventure. Holmes offered him all that. And he loved him for it.

“I…”

“Think carefully Watson. You know I can tell when you’re lying.”

“No. Not as much.” Watson admitted, feeling ashamed and vaguely dirty. How could he call himself a man when he was willing to do and say such things the night before his wedding?

“I thought so.” Holmes murmured, capturing Watson’s earlobe between his teeth and tugging gently. “You never could hide anything Watson.”

Watson opened his mouth to disagree only to be cut off by Holmes kissing him once more, a slow pressing of lips that was far gentler than Watson would have ever given Holmes credit for. He let Holmes press him back against the clock, hating himself for this weakness yet unable to truly summon the willpower to stop.

Holmes was laughing into his mouth and pressing against him, moulding their bodies close enough together for Watson to feel an answering bulge pressing against his crotch, a delicious pressure that had him rocking against Holmes before he could stop himself. He was dimly aware that he was whimpering and would undoubtedly be appalled at himself later, but couldn’t quite bring himself to care right now.

Holmes pulled his mouth away, biting at Watson’s jaw and continuing to grind Watson’s common sense into a melted puddle of goo.

“Come to bed with me, Watson.” He whispered, grinning as Watson’s hips snapped forward and he bit down hard on his bottom lip.

“I…”

“The only person who can stop this now is you. Do you want to stop, Watson? Do you really want to give this up?”

“No…”

“Then come with me.” Holmes stepped back, leaving Watson breathless and unsatisfied, suddenly cold without Holmes’ warmth against his chest.

“But Mary…”

“Would rather marry someone who truly loved her. Come on, Watson.”

Watson stared at the hand being offered to him, suddenly fully aware of the ramifications that would follow if he took it.

He’d be giving up Mary. He’d be giving up any chance of having a normal life and starting a family. He’d be courting scandal at every turn and fighting to keep their relationship hidden from the piercing eyes of the law. Were they to be discovered, they’d be social outcasts at the very least, and sentenced to hard labour at the worst.

Locking gazes with Holmes, he knew without a doubt that it would be worth it.

He took the hand and let Holmes lead him into his bedroom.

* * *

_A firm mattress behind him. Warmth surrounding him, on top of him. Nimble fingers trace his ribcage and he arches up because this is everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s been fantasising about._

_Lips on his. A tongue delving deeply. A groan from someone – he’s not sure who. Possibly Holmes, and the idea that he’s making the detective lose control is intoxicating._

_“Are you sure? This means too much for this to be one of your games, Holmes.”_

_“Shut up, Watson.”_

_Heat. Pressure. A moment’s pain and then only pleasure._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still hate that ending. One day. One day...


	5. Chapter 5

When Watson woke the next morning, the first thing he was aware of was that his body felt deliciously tired. Stretching, he frowned as his hand didn’t bump against his bedside table like it normally did. He opened his eyes, blinking against the harsh morning light and momentarily confused as to why he was in Holmes’ room and not his own.

Then suddenly memories of last night came crashing down on him and he was sitting bolt upright, wincing at the sharp ache the movement caused. He’d done it. He’d chosen Holmes over Mary and allowed his friend to cajole him into bed.

He flushed, remembering exactly what they’d done together once there.

Glancing around, he was momentarily disappointed to realise that Holmes was nowhere in sight. Reaching over to the other side of the bed, he frowned at how cold it was. Holmes had been gone for a while then. Rude of him, but then again Holmes had always had problems sleeping. Watson couldn’t expect him to go out of his mind with boredom waiting for Watson to wake up.

Freeing himself from the sheets’ tangled embrace, he picked up last night’s hastily discarded clothing and added it to Holmes’ pile of washing, grabbing clothes out of Holmes’ wardrobe to slip into. It was high time their bartering system worked the other way round too.

Peeking round the door to check that Mrs Hudson wasn’t around to see him emerge from Holmes’ room, Watson grinned as he saw Holmes lost in the paper as usual. However much he mocked Mary for being predictable, Holmes himself was very much a creature of habit.

He froze. Mary. The wedding. Oh God, he’d have to get over there right away, find a way of letting her down as gently as possible and handle turning away all the guests who were due to turn up in – he glanced at the grandfather clock, trying very hard not to get distracted with memories of what had happened against it last night – three hours.

But first…

“Good morning.” He announced, walking into the room and settling himself in his usual chair. Holmes hummed a reply, though he didn’t bother folding down the paper to look at Watson. That was annoying, but not out of character for the often distracted detective. A little attention after last night’s life changing event would have been nice though.

“Anything interesting in the paper?” Watson tried again, frowning when the only answer he got was Holmes shaking his head fervently enough for Watson to hear the newspaper crinkle.

“Is there a reason you’re not talking, Holmes?” He asked pettily and was finally granted the dubious honour of Holmes folding down the paper and eyeing him in mild annoyance.

“I was attempting to see if the number of words in each article could be estimated by knowing the journalist who had written it, but by all means Watson, keep talking.”

Watson blinked, a little hurt by Holmes’ cold rebuttal.

“Do excuse me, old boy. I was under the impression human beings actually conversed in the morning.” He said sarcastically. Holmes shrugged.

“And what, pray tell, is so interesting that it absolutely must be discussed this morning?” He asked. Watson faltered, a sudden chill spreading through his body and his stomach clenching as he recognised that something was wrong.

“Well I…I thought that maybe we could talk about what happened last night.” He tried. Holmes visibly winced, and the cold feeling intensified.

“Look, Watson…about last night…”

“Yes?”

“It was truly an experience not to be missed – I don’t regret it, not at all – but I think I may have got a little carried away.”

“…carried away?” Watson questioned, hating the way his voice cracked slightly.

“Yes. I…um…I think I may have given you the impression that I wanted to indulge in a clandestine relationship with you. The thing is, emotions were running high and things were said that seem nonsensical in the cold light of day. We function far better as friends, Watson. And besides, romantic entanglements only get in the way of true intellectualism.”

Watson stared at Holmes, a dull roaring in his ears and what felt like a vice around his heart. Nonsensical? Relationships getting in the way of intellectualism? He’d given the man his body and thrown away his engagement to Mary for nothing more than a little physical release?!

“Are you alright, Watson? I hope this isn’t too shocking.” Holmes said anxiously, leaning across from his chair to examine him. Watson recoiled, leaping from his chair and beginning to pace the room in agitation.

“Too shocking? Too _shocking_? Holmes, you deliberately seduced me on the eve of my wedding, only to tell me this morning that…” He stopped, closing his eyes and cursing himself for his stupidity.

Oh God. He should have known.

“Watson?”

“You knew full well what ‘impression’ you were giving me, didn’t you.” Watson said calmly, hands flexing at his sides. “It was all just a ploy to keep me here in this bachelor pad. You thought that I’d assume it was an honest, if callous, mistake. That I wouldn’t go through with my wedding to Mary because I’d be too ashamed.”

He paused, breathing in deeply to keep from launching himself at Holmes in a fit of rage.

“But you know what Holmes? I’ve finally proved you wrong. Because both of those assumptions are erroneous.”

He strode from the room before Holmes could reply, storming upstairs and flinging off the clothes he’d borrowed from Holmes, not caring when two of the waistcoat buttons tore off.

He was far more careful sliding into his suit, and relished the look of shock on Holmes’ face when he returned to the sitting room.

“You’re…that’s…”

“My best suit. Indeed. I can’t turn up at the church wearing your grubby clothes, can I?” Watson sneered, making for the door. He could hear Holmes spluttering behind him, the icing on what was turning out to be a rather rotten cake.

“Watson…you’re still going through with this?”

Watson paused, turning his head just enough to pierce Holmes with an angry glare.

“You asked me last night whether I’d rather trap Mary in a loveless marriage than let her find someone who truly loved her. But the thing is, I do love her. Maybe not as much as I thought I loved you, but more than enough to make her happy. What did you see happening here, Holmes? That I’d give up marrying someone who truly loves me for a bachelorhood with a man who betrayed my trust? Did you think we’d get drunk and tumble into bed occasionally for some no-strings sex?”

Watson struck the wall in anger, not caring that Mrs Hudson had probably heard the impact from downstairs.

“You said that Mary deserved to be loved. Well so do I, Holmes. I’ll be back for my things in a few days.”

“Watson…I’m sorry.” Holmes pleaded. Watson snorted, shaking his head in disgust.

“Save it, Holmes. We’re done here. I’ve put up with a lot over the years, but this is the last straw.”

“I didn’t mean to…”

The door slammed, the only response to Holmes’ half-formed apology.

* * *

Standing at the altar and watching Mary walking down the aisle with her bridesmaids, Watson was struck by how beautiful she looked. Positively radiant in a simple white gown, her smile alone was enough to convince Watson that he was making the right choice.

“You look beautiful.” He whispered, taking her arm and turning to face the reverend. She lightly pressed her shoulder against his in thanks, blush visible even through her veil.

The guilt was crushing.

Less than twenty four hours ago, he and Holmes had been grappling in a bed. Yet here he was, swearing not only to love and cherish her, but to also always be truthful. He was a hypocrite of the worst kind and he dearly wished he’d never been so stupid as to let Holmes fool him like that. His beautiful Mary deserved so much better.

Their vows exchanged, Watson smiled reassuringly at Mary as she slipped the simple gold wedding band onto his finger. Then it was his turn. Without a best man to perform the duty, Watson had had to look after the ring himself and at this moment he was glad of it.

After leaving Baker Street, he hadn’t headed straight here like he’d have had Holmes believe. He’d taken a detour via the jeweller’s instead and asked him to replace the small jewel in Mary’s wedding ring with another, much finer specimen.

Pulling the modified ring out, he smiled at Mary’s gasp of shock, slipping the impressive piece of jewellery onto her finger. The maharajah’s diamond glittered against her skin, the light from the stained glass windows turning it into a wonderful spectrum of all the colours of the rainbow.

“John! How…” Mary’s words trailed off as she stared at her new wedding ring. Watson chuckled, leaning down to kiss her gently on the lips.

“You can thank Holmes. He…gave it to us as an apology for the way he’s acted.” Watson lied. It was the least the detective could do considering the way he’d behaved.

“That was sweet of him.” Mary slipped her hand into his and they turned to walk down the aisle, the church echoing with the applause of their friends and family. Taking his first steps as Mary’s husband, Watson pretended not to notice the way the blonde man in a top hat was staring remorsefully at them, his fake nose slipping slightly.

If Holmes wanted to punish himself, than Watson wasn’t going to stop him.

* * *

His ire had cooled somewhat by the time he returned to Baker Street with Mary to collect his things. Though he was still justifiably furious with Holmes for attempting to manipulate him like that, he had to wonder what state of desperation Holmes must have been in to resort to that. He knew full well that he was Holmes’ only close friend – it was perhaps mildly understandable that the thought of losing Watson had somewhat tipped Holmes over the edge.

It wasn’t that he’d forgiven Holmes. On the contrary, if Holmes said anything untoward to Mary today Watson was fully prepared to have at him with his cane. But he was certainly less likely to actually use the sword part of it now.

He felt uneasy at Mary’s interest in his notes on Holmes’ cases. He’d deemed some cases far too personal to publish for the general public and the thought of Mary reading them filled him with a vague sense of wrongness. To be sure, there was nothing illicit in there, but for more than a decade it had just been him and Holmes, the unstoppable duo, and he was somewhat reluctant to let even his wife into that private world.

Mary was still nervous about being around Holmes. He wondered what her reaction would be if she were to find out about their night together. Somehow, he had the feeling that she might reveal herself to be a tigress rather than the lamb most people perceived her to be.

On first seeing Holmes hanging from the ceiling, Watson’s first horrified thought was that Holmes truly had been unable to cope and committed suicide in a fit of depression. Then he saw a foot twitch and he was able to breathe again.

It was mildly touching that Holmes had put so much effort into clearing his name. Almost enough to make up for manipulating him, though not for playing games with his heart. At Holmes’ cheerful comment that his tongue would be useless to Watson, however, he couldn’t help but shoot his old friend a warning glare. The remark wasn’t to be appreciated at any time, much less when Mary was present.

He would still miss all this though. As much of a bastard as Holmes could be, and had been, he had probably been the best friend that Watson had ever had. He was under no illusions that they would remain as close as they had been before. They were parting on fairly bad terms, for one thing, and he suspected that Holmes would lose himself in a fit of drug and alcohol aided sulking once he’d actually gone.

Even hearing Holmes make the most general of statements about Moriarty’s potential plans was enough to make him long for the excitement of fighting crime once more. Except...

“I’ve loaded the last of your boxes sir.”

So this was it. The adventures of Holmes and Watson were truly over.

“Well.” He glanced at Holmes, seeing regret in those dark eyes. Regret for his behaviour, or the ending of their time as flat mates? Watson couldn’t tell. Either way he knew he’d be missed.

“Well.”

About to say something a little more fitting as a goodbye, Watson was distracted by Gladstone making a break for freedom down the stairs.

“Stop him before he gets to the front door!” He called, abandoning Holmes at the window in an attempt to stop his dog from becoming a mess under the wheels of a carriage.

Luckily – for both him and Gladstone – the carriage driver helping him move managed to get a hold of the idiotic animal’s tail before he waddled out to meet his death. Sometimes Watson wondered whether all the things Holmes had tested on him over the years had addled his brains.

A polite yet fond farewell to Mrs Hudson resulted in Watson having to try and find room for a very large cake amongst all his other boxes. He hoped to God that it wasn’t carrot cake. For an otherwise wonderful baker, Mrs Hudson somehow managed to utterly fail at making carrot cakes. Or at least edible ones.

Helping Mary into the carriage, Watson paused for a moment, staring up at the white painted brick. This had felt far more like home than his parents' house ever had. And now he was to leave its shelter for good.

“Goodbye, Watson.” The quiet farewell made Holmes start and he turned to see Holmes standing beside him, Clarky waiting a few feet off. Holmes’ smile didn’t reach his eyes, and when he offered Watson his hand it was trembling.

Watson stared at it for a moment, taken aback by such an obvious sign of weakness before he understood what Holmes was doing. Taking Holmes’ hand in his, he used the handshake to pull Holmes into a brief embrace, feeling Holmes’ free hand snake round to grip unsteadily at the back of his coat.

“Goodbye Holmes.” He said loudly, squeezing him lightly in reassurance. “You’re forgiven.” He added, far more quietly, and felt the tension drain out of Holmes before he stepped back.

Then he was sitting inside the carriage, holding hands with Mary and watching through the opening as Baker Street disappeared from view. Holmes didn’t move until the carriage was just about to turn the corner, and even then it was only to raise his hat in farewell.


	6. Chapter 6

It had been two months since he’d left Holmes to live with Mary and thankfully he had yet to be called out in the middle of the night by a terrified Mrs Hudson. If Holmes hadn’t gone off the deep end by now he wasn’t going to, and that was something of a weight off Watson’s shoulders.

Perhaps it was a little vain to think his mere departure would make Holmes have a breakdown. Then again, the man had been desperate enough to seduce him in an attempt to stop him leaving, so who knew.

His and Mary’s marriage was progressing nicely – unlike Holmes’ initial dire predictions, there was yet to be a hint of lace doilies and china figurines – and his practice had only grown since word spread of his new surgery’s lack of Holmes. It was amazing how many people had actually been scared off by Holmes’ irrational behaviour. Although he supposed hearing gunshots in the next room over weren’t quite the thing to put an already concerned patient’s mind at rest.

Speaking of which…

“Dr Watson? It’s not long now. The manor’s just around the corner.” Dr Edwards assured him. Watson nodded his head in response, trying not to let the man see his impatience. Edwards had been telling him that for the past hour.

When an old friend from medical school had first contacted him about offering a second opinion, Watson had been incredibly pleased with the suggestion. It was a rare chance to get out of the hustle and bustle of London and whilst Walton-on-Thames wasn’t a million miles away it still offered Watson far more of a countryside than central London could do. He’d offered to bring Mary along for the jaunt but she’d gently refused, saying she felt ill and should probably lie down.

Actually, she’d been saying things like that a lot recently. He’d attempted to examine her, but as yet hadn’t been able to persuade her into letting him.

He wished he’d stayed behind with her now. He could have been taking care of her rather than watching his life flitter away on what was possibly the longest and most pointless journey he’d ever undertaken. It hadn’t been until they were leaving London that Edwards had admitted that his patient’s wife had nothing more than a bad cold and was just exaggerating things.

Damn Edwards.

Watson was pulled out of his internal grumblings by the carriage suddenly screeching to a halt, nearly sending him flying out of the open topped transport. Grabbing onto the side for support, he eased himself back into his seat, dimly aware that Edwards was making vaguely distressed sounds.

“What is it?” He asked, growing irritated as Edwards merely continued to flap his hands uselessly. “Dr Edwards?”

“Some ruffians have turned over the carriage ahead of us!” Edwards explained, looking scandalised. “They’re probably looting the passengers as we speak…perhaps if we drive quickly we can get around them…”

Watson stared at him in disbelief, unable to comprehend how someone could be so selfish.

“You’re suggesting that we just leave them to their fates? When between us and the driver we have three able bodied men who can assist them?” He peered towards the upturned carriage ahead, his indignation growing. “There are women in that carriage, man!”

Seeing that neither Edwards nor the driver were showing signs of springing into action, Watson snarled in frustration and swung himself out of the carriage, hand ready on the hilt of his sword-cane in case it was necessary.

“Hey! You there!” He called, striding over as rapidly as his leg could manage. “Stop that at once!”

To his immense irritation the gang only continued to rock the carriage from side to side, making the three women inside scream and cling onto each other.

“Just give us the money!” One of the gang members yelled, only for the youngest woman to shout back:

“We haven’t got any on us! We were only out for a drive!”

This just seemed to enrage the ruffians further and by the time Watson made it over it looked like things were about to get ugly. Drawing his sword, he struck with the flat of it, sending the thief who’d demanded money howling back in pain.

“You’ll leave these women alone if you know what’s good for you.” Watson said grimly, readying himself as the gang surrounded him menacingly.

“Oh really? And I suppose you’re gonna make us?” One jeered. Watson’s lip curled.

“Indeed.”

Getting in a few well aimed whacks and cuts before the gang really had time to strike, Watson managed to knock two of them out of the fight before it had really started. Taking care of the other four proved more tricky; had Edwards or the driver been helping him, it would have been no trouble. As it was, he kept finding himself surrounded on all sides, being attacked from all directions.

He parried most of the blows, wincing as a few of the more well aimed ones glanced off his cheek or caught him in his still tender shoulder. He sorely missed having Holmes at his back. He hadn’t got into a brawl since parting ways from the detective – probably not a coincidence – and the lack of back-up after all these years was slightly disconcerting.

Lunging forward to hit the kneecaps of one of the larger members with the hollowed out part of his sword-cane, Watson stumbled as something hard cracked him across the back of the head. It struck him again, sending stars scattering across his vision, and he found himself staggering sideways, outstretched hands grasping for something to stabilise himself.

Instead, he stumbled into some sort of wall at knee height, letting out a cry of surprise as he tumbled over what he vaguely realised must be the bridge’s wall. There was a moment of terror as he plunged through the air, abruptly cut short as he hit the water.

Struggling to get his bearings, he kicked upwards, his movements growing more sluggish as his vision darkened. Breaking the surface, he took one last gasp of air before surrendering unconsciousness.

Above him, the gang ran as the police finally arrived.

* * *

It was already dark by the time the knocking started. Mrs Hudson threw a dressing gown round herself, grumbling under her breath as she hurried down the corridor. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a decent night’s sleep; if it wasn’t the police knocking, it was an urgent summons, or terrified clients who couldn’t wait until morning.

Mr Holmes may have been prompt with his rent payments, but an ideal tenant he was not.

Pulling open the door, she sighed in irritation as she saw who it was.

“Inspector Lestrade. Couldn’t this have waited until morning? What case could possibly be so urgent that it requires Mr Holmes now?” She complained, standing back to let Lestrade and Clarky in. They both removed their headwear, inclining their heads apologetically.

“My apologies, madam. But Mrs Watson was quite insistent that Holmes be informed at once.” Lestrade said grimly. Mrs Hudson blinked, momentarily taken aback.

“Mrs Watson? Is she in trouble? Is Mr Watson alright?”

Lestrade hesitated, exchanging an uneasy look with Clarky.

“Perhaps you had better come see Holmes with us, Mrs Hudson.”

The group trooped upstairs, the tense atmosphere surrounding the two policemen affecting Mrs Hudson and making her fumble the lamp as she knocked on Holmes’ door.

“Mr Holmes?” She called, leaning close to the wood. “Mr Holmes, Inspector Lestrade and Constable Clark are here to see you!”

She leaned back, pausing to see if her words had had any effect.

The flat beyond remained silent and dark.

“For God’s sake.” Lestrade muttered, moving in front of the door. He glanced at Mrs Hudson. “May I?”

“Go right ahead.” She replied, moving well out the way. It wouldn’t be the first time Holmes had set traps in a fit of drunken paranoia, and there was no longer a Watson to disarm them before they could hurt anybody.

Moving cautiously (he too knew what Holmes’ mind could come up with when idle), Lestrade pushed the door open, flattening himself back against the wall just in case. There was a pause, then an amused voice spoke from the darkness;

“I wonder, Inspector, what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

“Holmes!” Lestrade snarled, storming into the room red faced and violently twisting the gas lamp on. “Why the devil didn’t you answer the door?”

“Surely I deserve one good night’s sleep? It’s not like I haven’t proved helpful before.” Holmes objected, stretching in his chair. Lestrade glared.

“You weren’t even in bed!”

“Details, Inspector, details. Now what can I do for you?” At Holmes’ words, Lestrade visibly calmed down, becoming more subdued as he studied his hat. Behind him, Clarky was ushering Mrs Hudson into a chair.

“We don’t need your help on a case this time.” Lestrade began.

“Then what on earth inspired you to come knocking at my door at this hour? Do tell Inspector.” Holmes interrupted, a devilish grin dancing round his lips. Lestrade sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“It’s Dr Watson.”

“Watson? Is he alright?” That had got Holmes’ attention. The man was visibly alert now, sitting bolt upright in his chair and focusing his gaze on Lestrade.

“Dr Watson disappeared around four o’ clock yesterday afternoon. A fellow doctor reported him missing a few hours ago.” Lestrade said bluntly.

“Oh!” Mrs Hudson breathed, looking to be very glad she was sitting down. “How terrible!”

On his part, Holmes had gone deathly pale, though his voice remained steady as he asked whether Mary had been informed.

“Yes, me and Clarky have just left her. Her mother’s coming to stay with her.”

“Good, good. Very good.” Holmes said absently. He seemed unaware that he was gripping his armrests so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

“Holmes?” Lestrade frowned, mildly discomfited. He’d never seen Holmes operating at anything other than peak efficiency and it was mildly unnerving to see him so taken aback.

“Hmm? Oh yes, right. Watson. Where was he last seen?”

“He was on his way through Walton-on-Thames with a Dr Edwards.” Clarky said, flipping open his notebook to check the details. “Upon seeing a carriage full of women being set upon by ruffians, he went to intervene.”

“That sounds like Watson.” Holmes chuckled quietly.

“After engaging them in a fight, Dr Watson was heard to cry out, and was not seen again. The local constabulary showed up shortly afterwards, but were unable to trace him.”

“No witnesses? What of the women he saved? Or the doctor he was travelling with?”

“The women were hiding their faces at the time and saw nothing. Dr Edwards was found hiding in his own carriage several yards back.” Clarky answered, his lip curling slightly at the last part. He had no time for cowards. Especially not when their cowardice jeopardised friends of his.

“What of the gang that attacked the women?” Holmes pressed.

“Most of them escaped. The few that were caught swear that the others wouldn’t have taken Dr Watson – not important enough for a worthwhile ransom and would have slowed down their retreat.”

“What about…”

“Holmes.” Lestrade interjected gently. “We didn’t come here to get your help on the case – we’re not even on it. It’s up to the local police there. We just came to let you know.”

“Right. Well…thank you Inspector.” Holmes managed. Lestrade nodded, leaving with Clarky in tow. Mrs Hudson hesitated at the door, face concerned.

“Will you be alright, Mr Holmes, or would you like me to bring you up some sweet tea?”

Holmes glanced at her, a small smile gracing his face.

“I’m fine, Nanny. Tea is not required.”

“Then good night, Mr Holmes.”

“Good night, Mrs Hudson.”

Listening to the sound of Mrs Hudson’s footsteps retreating down the stairs, Holmes got up and turned off the lamp.

Sitting in the darkness, it was several hours before he went to bed.


	7. Chapter 7

He came to surrounded by noise, a senseless buzz of sound that gradually rearranged itself into words. Opening his eyes a crack, he was vaguely aware of a circle of faces gazing down at him before a spasm wracked his body and he found himself coughing violently, water forcing itself up his throat.

He was dimly aware of a hand rubbing his back soothingly, a gentle voice murmuring for him to get it all out, that was it, he’d feel much better now. Feeling the coughing fit fade, he rolled onto his back and opened his eyes fully, wincing at the brightness of the sunlight.

“Where…where am I?” He croaked out.

“You’re in Marlow, young man. It looks like you’ve had quite the swim. Did you fall in? How far up the river were you?”

He opened his mouth to reply, pausing when he realised that he didn’t know. His panic only grew as he realised that he didn’t know anything about where he’d come from. Or even who he was for that matter.

Flailing into a sitting position, he wrapped his arms round his knees and breathed deep, forcing the panic back. There was no point in losing his head; things were bad enough already.

“I…I don’t know.” He managed. “I can’t remember anything.”

“Nothing? Not even your name?” An aghast person asked and he bristled.

“No. Not even my name.”

“Come on now, give the man some room!” A young voice called out, and a respectful murmur went through the crowd.

“Sir Harry!”

He stared up at the newcomer, taking in Sir Harry’s immaculate hair and wrinkle-free suit. Feeling suddenly self-conscious he patted his damp hair nervously, free hand tugging at the mangled, soggy mess that was his own suit.

Sir Harry seemed to notice, laughing quietly as he crouched down so that they were eye level.

“Now now, none of that. A fellow can’t be judged by his attire after nearly drowning. Did I hear you say that you don’t know who you are?”

He nodded.

“Right then. You’re coming with me. You can stay at the manor until you’ve recovered and Dr Lichen can give you a look over there. Feel like you can walk?”

He nodded again, levering himself unsteadily to his feet only to collapse as his leg gave way underneath him. Sir Harry lunged forwards, catching him under the arm and pulling him into a position where he was being supported by the younger man.

“Whoa now! Let’s take things slowly shall we? Now let’s get you back to the manor…”

He nodded gratefully, limping slowly towards the carriage that was waiting, door held open by an elderly man with a medical bag. Allowing the other two men to help him inside, he relaxed against the smooth leather with a sigh, only moving to allow the doctor enough room to sit comfortably.

“Don’t worry. We’re going to make sure you’re alright.”

He smiled softly, lowering his gaze and examining the scars on his hand with great interest.

He couldn’t be expected to know anything without knowing the back of his hand now, could he?

* * *

Mrs Hudson opened a door that had once led to her tenant’s living room, though judging from the impenetrable grey smog that now covered all that the eye could see (which wasn’t that much) it was now a doorway onto some forgotten kingdom of nothingness.

Sighing, she set down the tray of sandwiches at the door and removed her apron, wafting a visible pathway to the window and opening it despite the avid protests emerging from somewhere behind her.

“I don’t care, Mr Holmes, it can’t be healthy for a man to sit in a room with so much smoke.” She objected, putting her hands on her hips and turning to face him. “Exactly why is it so terrible that I’m airing out the room and giving you actual air to breathe?”

“I need to think, Nanny! In order to find Watson, my mind needs to be working at maximum capacity. I cannot be distracted.”

“Hence the vision handicapping smoke?”

“Exactly.”

“And what’s wrong with using a sleep mask?”

“I go to sleep.” Holmes said glibly. Mrs Hudson snorted in disbelief, wagging her finger at Holmes.

“Now don’t you lie to me, Mr Holmes. As if I’m to believe you’d sleep with Mr Watson missing. You barely sleep when helping strangers, let alone a close friend.”

“Apologies, Nanny. Now if you could perhaps leave your offerings and go? I’m sorry to be so rude, but time is of the essence here.”

Sighing, Mrs Hudson nodded and went to retrieve her tray, depositing the sandwiches on the table and picking up Holmes’ untouched breakfast.

“Make sure you eat something this time.” She instructed, already knowing full well that she would return in five hours to find Holmes in the same spot and the sandwiches untouched.

“I swear,” she muttered, returning downstairs. “He’s going to wind up killing himself one of these days.”

* * *

He had been sitting in one of Sir Harry’s guest bedrooms for what felt like hours, allowing Dr Lichen to subject him to all manner of tests both physical and oral in nature. Sir Harry had promised to wait outside, though he would rather the other man had come in. There was just something soothing about the baronet’s presence. Of course, there was no way he could have asked. He had humiliated himself quite enough today already, thank you very much.

Hearing footsteps, he looked up to see Dr Lichen coming back in with Sir Harry in tow.

“Well? Did you find anything?” He asked.

“Miraculously, you’ve escaped with nothing more than a slight cold and bruised knuckles.” Dr Lichen said, a faintly incredulous tone to his voice.

“What about my leg?”

“An old wound. I suspect that you were previously using a cane as a walking aid. Judging from the shrapnel scarring on your shoulder and the bullet scars in your injured leg, I’m guessing that you were invalided out from one of the wars. Probably Afghanistan.”

“So…I’m a soldier?” He questioned, furrowing his brow. That sounded right. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he did.

“We think so. I’ve sent an enquiry to London asking whether any former soldiers have been reported missing. It will probably be a while before they get back to me – you know how bureaucracy is.”

He smiled, amused because he did. How odd that he could forget his own name yet remember everything about England’s petty politics.

“You’re more than welcome to stay here until you remember something, or someone in London sends your records down.” Sir Harry offered. “We have plenty of bedrooms, and to be honest I’ve been craving some masculine company. Eleanor just doesn’t know a thing about cricket.”

At his blank look, Sir Harry laughed.

“Eleanor’s my sister. She’s an alright girl, but you’d have more luck explaining the rules of cricket to a rock than her. You’d probably get more sense out of it too.” He suddenly paused, frowning. “Look, we can’t keep calling you ‘you’ all the time. We need to give you a temporary name. Any ideas?”

“…”

“How about John Doe?” Dr Lichen suggested. The name sounded oddly familiar. It wasn’t right, but it seemed that it was maybe nearly there…

“Of course not, doctor! You can’t call the poor man something so generic!” Sir Harry exploded, seemingly outraged on behalf of his new guest. “What about after that doctor who’s making waves in London? Joseph Bell?”

“Sir Harry, I’m not quite sure giving him the same name as someone that famous is really very smart…”

“Pish posh. It’s only temporary. Let the man enjoy his taste of fame while he can, doctor.” Turning to face Joseph, Sir Harry winked, a wicked smile on his face.

Joseph just smiled back, wondering why the expression seemed so familiar to him.

“Anyway, I’ll leave you to get yourself washed up. There’s a private bathroom through the door on your left, and shaving equipment on the side if you need it. Oh, and help yourself to whatever clothes you like from the wardrobe. They’re nothing special, just the clothes Eleanor won’t let me wear anymore because they’re ‘unfashionable’. But they should fit you fine.” Sir Harry offered, guiding Dr Lichen out of the room. “Dinner’s at 6 – I hope you’re feeling well enough to join us by then.”

Joseph blinked, unable to quite believe his luck. Not only had he washed ashore with relatively few injuries, he seemed to have been taken in by a man as generous as he was wealthy. He was sure that in most other cases victims such as himself would be left to beg for aid on someone’s doorstep.

Opening the wardrobe, he stared at its contents in awe. Unfashionable they may be, but each one still had a much finer cut than the ruined one Dr Lichen had stripped from him. Each one of them most likely cost more than what he’d used to earn in a year.

Pulling out an outfit ready, he investigated the bathroom, eyeing the copper bathtub and taps with glee. He’d spent far too long damp and chilly, what he needed was a nice hot bath to warm him up. But first…the mirror.

Shuffling over to the mirror next to the sink, Joseph kept his eyes lowered so that he didn’t accidentally catch a glance at his reflection. Once there he paused, breathing in deep, trying to squash the butterflies fluttering inside his stomach. This was it – his first look at his reflection. It had been somewhat disconcerting to walk around with absolutely no idea of what he looked like. He hoped he wasn’t ugly; it would be somewhat crushing to have to accept however many years' worth of ugliness in a few seconds.

Gripping the side of the sink tightly, he lifted his head and opened his eyes, gazing curiously at the man staring back at him. It could have been far worse. In fact, he’d probably go as far to say that he was fairly attractive. And no disfiguring facial scars or tattoos – that was a bonus.

Turning his face from side to side, Joseph stroked a cheek with his fingers, prodding at the skin. Somehow it still didn’t quite feel like his face. Like his old self maybe, but not like his current amnesiac self. He wanted to do something to it, to make himself feel like he belonged in his skin.

Eyeing the pot of shaving equipment on the side, Joseph hesitated before picking up the foam brush. Dragging a nail over the bristles, he stared at his reflection and pondered.

* * *

Back at the Watson household, Mary sat down to dinner alone, the clink of her knife against her plate echoing unusually loudly in the empty room. Normally John would be regaling her with tales of that day’s patients by now, or listening to funny stories from when she’d been a governess.

Without John, the room seemed far too big and cold.

Her mother was coming over tomorrow. She’d be staying until there was news of John – she didn’t think a woman like Mary should sleep alone so long. Mary had been tempted to tell her that she was probably far more capable of taking care of herself than her mother was, but had refrained. Her mother was only looking out for her, after all.

Fingering her wedding ring, Mary bit her lip. It wouldn’t be long now. If the police didn’t come up with something soon, then Holmes would. He would never let his friend vanish into the system like that.

If John wasn’t found, what would happen to her? She had enough money to keep her going for a good while if she budgeted accordingly, but eventually it would run out. And in her condition, there was no way she could find employment now.

And how was she supposed to go on living without John anyway, now that she knew what it felt like to welcome him home every evening and hold hands in front of the fire? He made her feel witty, beautiful, and the thought of losing that wonderful smile of his was too terrible to even consider.

“Mrs Watson? I’m afraid the cook’s burnt the duck.”

It was too much. Burying her head in her hands, Mary began to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, Joseph Bell. I remember feeling very smug when I came up with that idea. Now I just look back at my past self and cringe...


	8. Chapter 8

It had been five weeks since Watson had disappeared. Holmes had spent every waking moment of every day since going over the evidence, refusing all other distractions to the detriment of his health, London’s crime rates, and Mrs Hudson’s patience.

And all for naught.

Not a single new witness had come forward. His various visits to Walton-on-Thames had turned up no new leads and the constabulary were now able to not only recognise him on sight, but also predict his leading sentence right down to each individual word. To put it bluntly, Holmes was stuck, and that just wasn’t good enough when it was Watson’s life on the line.

God, Watson.

Sitting in Watson’s old chair with his knees drawn up to his chest, Holmes stared intently at the board of evidence he’d erected against the opposite wall. There had to be something he’d missed. Some grain of truth, some tiny detail that would prove the keystone to this entire case.

Men like Watson did not simply disappear. He was far from some villainous husband who had grown bored of city society and simply gone off to seek new pastures. And he wasn’t rich enough to merit any sort of kidnap and ransom.

He had no enemies besides those Holmes himself shared and a vigorous investigation of London’s seedy criminal underbelly had left the majority of felons Holmes had encountered bruised and bloody, but not turned up any sign of vengeance directed at Holmes.

He’d long determined that the gang Watson had been fighting had not abducted him for nefarious reasons and he could find no trace of obsessive stalkers or husbands who’d somehow managed to get the entirely wrong idea about Watson’s interactions with his patients.

Lestrade had told him that the case had been put aside for now, demoted to make way for fresher, more solvable cases. And that just wasn’t good enough.

He’d let his friend down enough already. Holmes wasn’t about to let him rot out there.

No. Not rot. That brought far too many images to mind that Holmes didn’t even want to consider.

There was a knock at the door, and Holmes cursed under his breath. Mrs Hudson had truly started earning her ‘Nanny’ nickname recently, regularly coming in to check on him every three hours or so to make sure he was eating what she left out for him. If the plate remained full, she would stand over him and lecture until he’d eaten at least half, thrusting glasses of water under his nose to wash the food down.

He’d thought that Watson was tenacious when it came to looking after his health, but he had nothing on Mrs Hudson when she had a bee in her bonnet.

Shoving the remaining ham sandwich into his mouth, Holmes winced as he swallowed the barely chewed snack.

“C’m ‘n.” He managed through the bread currently choking him, beating a fist against his chest in an attempt to ease its passage.

The door creaked open, but rather than the landlady he’d expected to see it was - to his immense surprise - someone entirely different.

“Mary? Good lord, I haven’t seen you since…since the day after your wedding.” He exclaimed, sitting upright and hurriedly straightening his dressing gown somewhat. Mary smiled wanly at him, shuffling over to the spare seat and easing herself down. She didn’t look well – her cheeks had sunk into her face, making her look drawn and gaunt, and her hair was visibly lank despite having been manhandled into an elegant bun.

Clearly, Watson’s disappearance had taken its toll on her.

He wondered what he would have looked like if it weren’t for Mrs Hudson.

“Well, if you’d accepted any of the dinner invitations we sent you…” She chastised Holmes gently. Holmes coughed, looking slightly embarrassed.

“Of course. Sadly I had…um…prior engagements.”

“Indeed.” They sat in silence for a while, neither meeting the other’s gaze. It was only when the grandfather clock chimed the hour that Mary finally spoke again.

“They’ve dropped John’s case.”

“I know.”

“They’re just going to leave him out there…wherever he is. What if he’s lying in some hospital somewhere, hurt? Or robbed and penniless, unable to get back home?” Mary exclaimed, voice anguished. Holmes bit his lip.

“I’ve been trying to work out what happened to him…but by the time I got to the crime scene, the locals had already ruined it beyond saving. I’ve had nothing but eyewitness accounts and the evidence collected by the police themselves to go on.”

Mary looked at him fondly, eyes drooping tiredly as she covered a harsh cough with a gloved hand.

“I know you have. I didn’t expect any less of you. John was always talking about you, both whilst he was still living with you and after he moved out. He was proud to call you a friend.”

Holmes winced, remembering the stunt he’d pulled on the night before Watson’s wedding. He had no doubt that Mary would have far fewer kind words for him had she only known what he’d done.

“Yes, well…”

“Some police came to my house today.” Mary said suddenly, staring intently at the fireplace. “Not Lestrade and his gang – the ones lower down the ladder. They asked me if John had any reason to just up and leave. Debts, feuds…an unhappy marriage.”

Oh, Lestrade was going to hear about this, Holmes seethed inwardly. The inspector may be a clot sometimes, but he would never have stood for such impertinent questioning of a lady in Mary’s state. He’d have to get their names off Mary later…he guaranteed that within a few weeks of Lestrade catching wind of what had happened a few officers would be demoted.

“He’d put his gambling days far behind him. And he got on with everybody.” Holmes reassured her. “As for an unhappy marriage…I’ve never known a man willing to do so much for his bride. He truly loved you Mary.”

Mary shivered, her eyes dropping to the floor.

“It’s just that sometimes…sometimes he could be distant. As if he’d gone somewhere else, somewhere I couldn’t follow him. From the moment we got married, he seemed… _changed_ …somehow. Like something had happened that I could never hope to understand.”

Holmes swallowed hard, tugging at his collar surreptitiously. There was only one thing that Mary could be referring to. Watson had undoubtedly been remembering the night Holmes had enticed him into bed, the night Watson had decided to give up Mary in order to have a life with Holmes.

Watson hadn’t been the only one to find himself dwelling on it. Holmes himself had found that night frequently in his thoughts, wondering what would have happened had it not merely been an ill judged scheme to make Watson stay with him.

He wasn’t sure what was worse: the fact that he himself remained stuck on it, or the fact that in all his fantasies they were happy.

“It was nothing to do with you.” Holmes said quietly, crushing his own guilt and leaning forward to take Mary’s gloved hand in his. He was momentarily shocked by the feeling of bones through leather, but swallowed his horror back and continued on. “Watson came back from the war a broken man. He may seem whole now, but he can never truly be what he was before. You just hadn’t spent enough time with him to notice.”

It was a pathetic lie, but hopefully a good enough one to fool a woman as desperate as Mary. Sure enough, she leapt on the sliver of hope like one starved of food.

“I never knew…I was beginning to think his heart belonged to another.” She laughed hollowly, and Holmes suddenly found the sky outside to be a very interesting thing indeed. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I still have yet to find your husband.” Holmes blustered. “Not that he’d be very happy to see you in the state you’re in now. You or his child.”

Mary stared at him, mouth open.

“How did you know?”

“You’ve been cradling your stomach ever since you first sat down. And every time you mention Watson, you rub it.”

“No one else has noticed…”

“That’s because you’re letting yourself waste away.” Holmes said sternly. “You’re meant to be eating for two, not eating child-sized portions. How do you think Watson will feel, coming back only to find his wife and unborn child dead of malnutrition?”

Mary smiled softly, levering herself to her feet and kissing Holmes softly on the brow.

“You’re right. I haven’t been looking after myself. I’ve been selfish – I have someone else to look after now.”

Pausing at the doorway, Mary turned to look back at Holmes, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“People talk about him in the past tense now, you know. I keep catching myself doing it. Even you were doing it earlier.”

“Mary…”

“I don’t want to be a widow before I have to be. But I can’t live off hope forever either. Please…find him for me.” She pleaded desperately. Holmes nodded, trying to convey his earnestness through his eyes.

“I promise you, Mary. One way or another, I will tell you what has become of your husband. I’ll solve this. Whatever the cost.”

Mary smiled gratefully, shutting the door behind herself as she left. Holmes listened to the sound of her heels on the stairs, moving to the window in time to see her start off down the street, occasionally stumbling as she searched for an empty cab.

If she didn’t do something soon, she wasn’t going to make it long enough to see her husband return.

“Did you manage to give the poor woman some hope?” Mrs Hudson asked, coming into the room with a fresh pot of tea. Holmes shrugged, moving to stand in front of his evidence board and crossing his eyes in an attempt to see things in a different light.

“A little. There’s not much to go around these days. Every day that goes by, the trail gets colder.”

“No new leads then?”

“No. I’m heading back into Walton-on-Thames tomorrow to see if I can’t drag something new from the local police.”

Mrs Hudson shook her head, tutting at the mess of crumbs Holmes had left all over the carpet. Though at least it was sign that he was eating, she supposed.

“You’ll be lucky. According to my niece they’ve just found a body in the river. Suicide, poor thing. All because her lover refused to mar…”

“Of course, that’s it!” Holmes exclaimed, slamming a hand against the board. How can I have been so stupid?! Nanny, you’re a genius!”

Mrs Hudson blinked, unsure of what exactly she’d said to get Holmes quite so excited. She failed to see how her mentioning such a thing as suicide could inspire Holmes so.

“Walton-on-Thames is on a river! On the Thames, to be more precise. I may have been checking every last inch of ground about the crime scene, but Watson never left the bridge via the ground! He went over the side!”

“Oh my…then surely he’s…”

“Hush now, Mrs Hudson. The height is nowhere near enough to cause death upon impact. Now, if we are to assume that Watson was unconscious, or at least stunned, when he hit the water…”

Sweeping the masses of pinned paper off the board, Holmes began writing feverishly on the bare surface, his hand moving so fast that it was nearly a blur.

“He would have been swept downstream – summer rainstorms always make the current swell - until he hit the first curve in the bank. This landmass would have sent him spinning down the river at an angle of…” Holmes trailed off, muttering calculations under his breath as he attempted to visualise the situation.

Mrs Hudson waited, hope swelling in her chest.

“…until he emerged at the critical point, which is here!” Holmes finally proclaimed, stabbing a pin into a map of southeast England and bounding across the room. Mrs Hudson peered closer, frowning slightly.

“He’s in Southend? Isn’t that upstream?”

Holmes paused, wheeling back.

“Hmm. So it is. Hold on.” Spinning the map round, he slammed the pin in again, tapping it furiously. “That’s better. Far more likely than Southend. Whoever heard of a man floating upstream? He’s in Marlow. I’d stake Gladstone on it.”

He paused, frowning.

“That is, had Watson not taken him with him. My hat then. I’d stake my hat.”

“Then why hasn’t he gone home?” Mrs Hudson questioned, smoothing down her skirts in nervous agitation. Holmes winked at her, flipping his hat up his arm and onto his head.

“That, my dear Mrs Hudson, is what I intend to find out. I promised Mary that I would find her husband and I intend to keep that promise.”


	9. Chapter 9

The train journey down to Marlow was probably the most uncomfortable Holmes had ever experienced. He felt ill from nerves and lack of sleep and couldn’t seem to get comfortable in his seat, squirming about like a misbehaving child. He had a feeling that the vicar in the corner would have very much liked to strangle him, the Lord’s commandments be damned, but thankfully they pulled into the station before his irritation managed to overcome his love of God.

The first pub he sauntered into fell silent as soon as he entered, the locals regarding him suspiciously as Holmes entered. This was nothing new to him – he was used to similar reactions in some of London’s seedier bars – but time was of the essence and he didn’t feel like spending an entire day making the patrons warm up to him.

The second pub was far friendlier, though to his annoyance no one had seemed to have heard of a John Watson outside the occasional _Strand_ newspaper they’d picked up on trips to London. Even a few coins casually slipped across the bar did nothing but confuse the barman, who simply assumed that Holmes had ordered another drink and he’d missed it.

It wasn’t until he’d wandered into a café in a fit of depression, hoping that some cake might cheer him up, that he struck gold. The place was full of old biddies gossiping and he’d barely been seated five minutes before two grandmothers had slipped into the seats opposite.

“Well, you’re new around here! Trip down from London? We get quite a few Londoners down here, we do. Ethel’s bed and breakfast is full of them.”

“Is that so?” Holmes replied genially, taking a bite of his carrot cake and resisting the urge to groan at how good it tasted. Far better than any of Mrs Hudson’s attempts had ever been.

“Ooh, yes. Just last week I got a party of office clerks looking to relax.” Ethel put in, looking immensely proud of herself for no conceivable reason.

“I see. I suppose you know most everything that goes on around here then? Fine, upstanding women such as yourselves are usually in the know.” Holmes winked, smirking as the women laughed, flattered.

“You could say that. There’s very little else to do except gather knowledge when you get to our age.”

“Then maybe you could help me. I’m looking for a friend who went missing a few weeks back. Fellow by the name of John Watson.”

Blank looks.

“He’s a little taller than me, has a moustache, and has a bad right leg. In his late thirties.”

“I’m sorry, no one using that name’s been here recently.” The first grandmother apologised, seemingly stricken that they didn’t know.

“Although…” Ethel hesitated, gnawing at her lip. “He sounds a little bit like Sir Harry’s guest Joseph.”

Holmes blinked. He’d never heard Watson mention a Sir Harry, let alone one whom he felt comfortable enough to stay with for several weeks. And Joseph?

“The man I’m looking for was swept downstream from Walton-on-Thames.” He added, closely examining the women’s faces for hint of a lie. “I believe he may have washed ashore here.”

The women’s satisfied smiles lit up the whole room, veritably splitting their faces in half.

“That’s him alright! Poor thing nearly drowned. Sir Harry’s been letting him stay at the manor.” Ethel exclaimed.

Holmes froze, heart beating loudly in his chest. He’d found him? He’d actually found Watson, after all this time? It almost seemed too easy, yet Holmes had learnt before to never underestimate the power of village gossip. For some inexplicable reason, women of a certain age seemed to know all there was to know about their home town – in hindsight, he should probably have started with Marlow’s tea rooms.

“Thank you, ladies. I assume the manor is the one you see coming in on the train?” He pressed, grinning as they nodded. “Then I must be going. Your assistance has been most appreciated.”

Tipping his hat to them (he should probably have taken it off before coming indoors, but then again he hadn’t really been in the mood to follow social etiquette), Holmes rushed out, oblivious to their calling out after him. After weeks of agonising over what could have happened to his old flat mate, he’d finally located Watson and absolutely nothing was going to distract him in his task.

Behind him, Ethel sighed and looked worriedly at her friend.

“He didn’t stay long enough for us to tell him about the memory loss.” She fretted, nails tapping anxiously against her tea cup. The other woman shrugged, pulling Holmes’ leftover cake towards her.

“It’s not like we didn’t try. He’ll find out soon enough.”

* * *

Having made a suspicious looking cabbie drive him up to the manor, Holmes found himself hesitating at the door, unable to bring himself to knock. Why hadn’t Watson made contact with anybody after washing up here? Surely he could have got this Sir Harry to send a telegram on his behalf? Unless those bumbling policemen who’d talked to Mary had been right all along, and Watson really was running from something…

Shaking his head firmly, Holmes got a grip on himself. He was Sherlock Holmes, not some overanxious heroine straight out of a book. He’d never been a coward before and he damn well wasn’t going to start now.

Besides, the servants were probably watching him from inside by now, contemplating sending for the police.

Steeling himself, Holmes raised his fist to knock at the massive oak doors, only to get distracted at the sound of horses’ hooves behind him. Turning back, he watched as the coach rolled up the drive and came to a crunching halt in the middle of the gravel court. It was clearly a private carriage, as opposed to the much smaller ones used as cabs in the town centre, though Holmes was unable to tell if it belonged to Sir Harry or a visitor.

He was able to recognise the man who stepped out of it, however.

“Watson!” He exclaimed, rushing across the courtyard to grab his friend by the shoulders, not noticing the way he was holding himself rigid. “Where the devil have you been?! Have you any idea how worr…you’ve shaved off your moustache. Why would you shave off your moustache?”

He paused for breath, slightly irritated when he realised that Watson was still gaping at him like a fish out of water and clearly not about to respond.

“Come now! It’s been five weeks, Watson. Haven’t you got anything to say for yourself?”

“Unhand me this instant and tell me exactly who you are.”

Holmes froze, his grip slackening until Watson was able to easily step free.

“Is this some kind of joke?” He asked quietly, a trace of warning in his voice. “Because I’m failing to see the funny side, Watson.”

“Look, I’m sorry but I don’t know who you…”

“Joseph? Is everything alright?” Holmes glanced at the young man who’d come striding out of the manor, taking in the well-cut clothes and fashionable haircut. Even without his legendary detective skills, he would have been able to recognise the man in an instant, he reeked so much of privilege.

“Sir Harry, I presume?” He smiled, doffing his hat. “My name’s Sherlock Holmes and I’ve come to claim my friend here.”

“Claim?” Sir Harry repeated, nose wrinkling. Holmes crossed his arms, glaring.

“Yes. Claim. I’ve been looking for Watson for over a month now – a little case of amnesia isn’t going to put me off. We’re going back to London. Right now.” He said decisively.

“And I suppose I don’t get a say in any of this? If you’re even telling the truth about me being this ‘Watson’ fellow.”

Holmes stared at his friend in shock, feeling his mouth fall open in a most unbecoming way.

“I’m sorry?”

“That’s a start.” Watson said scathingly, standing there with his hands on his hips and looking for all the world like an irritated Mrs Hudson. “Now explain who you are, how I’m meant to know you, and how I ended up in the Thames.”

“Perhaps we should continue this inside?” Sir Harry suggested, gesturing towards the manor. Watson’s glare melted instantly, and he smiled warmly before crossing over to the entrance. Turning to Holmes, Sir Harry waved him on in front of him, a blank expression on his face.

Seething, Holmes stomped inside, barely stopping to let the butler take his coat. Things had never been simple when it came to Watson – why had he expected things to be different now?

* * *

Watching Watson relax back into the armchair with the ease of someone who plainly spent a lot of time there, Holmes marvelled at how much younger the man appeared clean shaven and without a moustache. With one simple action Watson had lost ten years at least, looking closer to Sir Harry’s age than his own. Holmes couldn’t help missing the moustache though; for some reason, it just didn’t seem like Watson without it. More like a younger, strikingly similar brother than the man Holmes had shared a flat with for years.

“Right then. Perhaps we should start from the beginning? I’m guessing that things are already confusing enough for poor Joseph as it is.” Sir Harry smiled, seemingly missing the look of utter loathing Holmes directed his way.

“Watson.”

“Excuse me?”

“His name is John Watson. Not Joseph. Dr John Hamish Watson, to be more precise.”

“I’m a doctor?” Watson sounded surprised. “Dr Lichen thought I may have been an ex-soldier.”

“You are. You were invalided out after getting shot in the leg.”

“And the shoulder?”

“You were caught up in an explosion whilst helping me on a case. You took a lot of shrapnel to the shoulder, but thankfully that was the worst of it.” Holmes said quietly, remembering the horror he’d felt that day as he watched Watson disappear into the flames. He’d thought he’d lost him for good, in a far more final way than any marriage to Mary would have been.

“Case?” Sir Harry interrupted. “You’re a police officer, Mr Holmes?”

“Hardly. I’d like to think I was a little smarter than that. I’m a private detective. Clients hire me to solve cases the police can’t.”

"And I help you with these cases?” queried Watson. Holmes nodded, trying to look trustworthy.

“Yes. We used to share a flat and things just progressed naturally. You were bound to get curious about my work at some point.”

“So I’m an ex-army doctor, who spends his free time helping a private detective solve cases?” Watson summed up sceptically. “Forgive me, Mr Holmes, but it sounds a little farfetched.”

Holmes winced. Hearing Watson address him like that was just wrong. For as long as he could remember they’d just been ‘Holmes’ and ‘Watson’ to each other. To hear Watson add a Mr onto his name merely made the other man seem even more distant.

Not that Holmes could blame him. He’d be pretty cynical too if some stranger turned up out of the blue claiming to be his closest friend, spinning some story that seemed to be right out of an adventure novel.

“It may sound farfetched, but I assure you that it’s the absolute truth. You and I are really friends, Watson, and I can prove it.”

“Go on then.” Sir Harry drawled, leaning back in his own chair and crossing his legs. “I’m not going to release him into your custody unless you can prove that you’re telling the truth.”

Holmes gritted his teeth, telling himself that it was hardly going to inspire confidence in Watson if he brutally attacked the man who had so kindly taken him in. It was just that Sir Harry rubbed him up the wrong way. He was probably a decent sort, judging from the cabby’s exalted praising of him on the journey over, but Holmes couldn’t help but dislike him for the excessive interest he was showing in Watson.

There was plainly more than concern for Watson’s wellbeing going on here, and Holmes would be damned if he let some spoiled rich baronet keep Watson just to get his manicured hands on him.

“Your injured leg is your right leg.” He began. “There is some damage to the upper thigh, but the majority of harm is focused around your Achilles tendon. You have a small scar in the centre of your right palm from when you tripped and your cane cut into your hand. Your left foot is slightly larger than your right, making buying footwear a pain, and you prefer your waistcoats to be well fitted but not tight.”

Pausing, he sneaked a glance at Watson and Sir Harry, inwardly smirking at the flabbergasted expression on Sir Harry’s face and the look of interest on Watson’s.

“There is a dark spot on the upper thigh of your left leg, from where you once drunkenly decided to get a tattoo whilst you were in the service. You sobered up and thought better of it before the tattooist had time to do more than just prick your skin.”

Watson had told him that story over brandy late one night, and Holmes had been able to verify the spot's existence the night before Watson married Mary. He dearly hoped that Sir Harry hadn’t had the opportunity to examine it yet, though one look at Sir Harry’s bemused face was enough to reassure him.

“Despite numerous protests, you have quite the sweet tooth.” He continued, on a roll now. No one could beat him when it came to knowing Watson. “Your nerves were shot to hell in the war and you sometimes get night terrors. You’re an active person once you get into the spirit of things, but otherwise you can be quite lazy. You…”

“Enough! Enough!” laughed Watson, holding up a hand to halt the torrent of words spewing from Holmes’ mouth. “I think it’s safe to say that you’ve proved you’re telling the truth. I believe you.”

“It’s quite…remarkable…that someone can know so much about another person.” Sir Harry interjected, looking thoroughly put out. Holmes grinned, resisting the urge to stick out his tongue. He’d keep his immature behaviour at a minimum until he had Watson safely on a train back to London.

“We may not be brothers in blood, but we’re brothers in bond. I know everything about Watson that he has ever shared with me, and a great deal more besides.” Holmes boasted. He noticed that Watson was eyeing him curiously now, a far different sort of interest in his gaze to when Holmes had first introduced himself.

He wondered if Watson remained attracted to him despite the memory loss. Sir Harry may have shown interest in Watson, but Watson so far hadn’t given off any sign of a persisting attraction to men.

Then again, neither had the old Watson until that drunken kiss they’d shared had dragged everything into the open.

“Yes. Well. That may be, but…” Sir Harry blustered, only to be cut off by Watson reaching over and laying a reassuring hand on his arm.

“It’s fine, Harry. Could you possibly give us a minute? I’d like to talk to Mr Holmes alone.”

Sir Harry stared at him, before a desolate expression crossed his face and he stood up, visibly wilting.

“If you’re sure, Joseph. I’ll be in the library should you need me. Shall I send Smith in with some refreshments?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. But thank you.” Watson smiled, inclining his head as Sir Harry left the room, shutting the door behind him.

As he turned back to face Holmes, the detective was suddenly aware of exactly how piercing Watson’s gaze could be when he wished it.

“Brothers in bond but not blood, hmm?” Watson repeated, raising an eyebrow. Holmes shrugged.

“A gypsy woman said it once. I liked the phrasing.”

“Of course you did. Now tell me if I’ve got any of this wrong. We’re two friends.”

“Yes.”

“Who’ve spent the majority of our adult lives sharing lodgings.”

“That’s right.”

“You’re a full time detective and I’m a doctor who often helps you out with your cases.”

“Correct. It’s really very simple.”

“Just two bachelors…approaching middle age…sharing a flat with no sign of outside romantic interests.” Watson said slowly and Holmes’ eyes widened as he realised what conclusion Watson had leapt to.

“No!” He exclaimed, the casual slouch he’d been adopting forgotten as he bolted upright in shock. “You moved out a few months ago. You’re married now.”

Although, he thought guiltily, Watson’s assumption hadn’t been too far wrong by the end of their time as flatmates.

“I’m married?!” Watson slumped back in his chair, flabbergasted. “But…I have no wedding ring!”

“I kept telling you that the ring you’d picked was far too big for your finger. It must have slipped off in the river. Don’t worry, Mary is a very patient woman. I’m sure she’ll forgive you.”

Watson glanced up from where he’d been resting his forehead on steepled fingers.

“Her name’s Mary? Mary Watson. John and Mary Watson.” He sighed, shaking his head. “It just doesn’t ring any bells. Surely hearing her name should…I don’t know…bring all the memories rushing back? Or at least fill me warmth? Yet I don’t feel anything. She’s just a name to me.”

“I’m sure it will be different when you see her.” Holmes tried.

“Will it? According to you, we were the greatest of friends, yet I remember nothing at all about the time we spent together. Yes, you feel familiar to me. And I get the impression that we were once inseparable. But that’s it. I don’t look at you and desperately want to go home. If anything, there’s a little voice telling me that I’m far happier here than I ever was in London.”

“Watson…”

“Even my name doesn’t make sense to me! I’m sorry, Mr Holmes, but I’m just not sure what you expect of me.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Then what should I call you? Sherlock?” Watson griped. Holmes shuddered, his given name sounding even more unnatural coming from Watson’s lips.

“…never mind. You ask what I expect of you? To leave here with me. To return to London and take care of your wife. To make do until you can remember.”

“And what if I never do? Mr Holmes, you have to understand…you’re asking me to give up being happy so that I can pretend to be the man I no longer am. To go home and make love to a woman who is essentially a stranger to me now. To risk everything on the slim chance that my memory will return.”

“You’ve been missed, Watson. Not just by Mary and I.”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it? I’m not John Watson any more. I’m Joseph Bell. Sir Harry has promised me that I can stay here as long as I wish, and to be perfectly honest with you I would rather remain here and build a new life for myself then go back to a life that isn’t mine.” Watson said fiercely.

Holmes stared at him, heart in his mouth as he tried to get his head around what Watson was telling him. Out of all the situations he’d envisioned, this had not been one of them. The Watson he knew would never have turned his back on his friends and family like this.

Perhaps this Joseph fellow had a point.

Closing his eyes in despair, Holmes pinched the bridge of his nose, attempting to keep calm and restrain the mild panic attack that was threatening to bubble up and take hold.

“You’re being irrational.”

“And you’re being obstinate! I’m sure you’re a wonderful person Mr Holmes – my wife too – and I certainly wouldn’t object to you spending a few days here so that I can get to know you. But I will not be returning to London.”


	10. Chapter 10

Over the next few days, Holmes tried his hardest to make Watson see sense. He tried everything from normal conversation to relating their most interesting cases to Watson. He even managed to locate some old issues of _The Strand_ , in case seeing things in his own words jogged Watson’s memory.

Nothing worked. Watson seemed interested enough in talking to him, but the moment conversation turned to the topic of him returning to London he clammed up. It was immensely frustrating, and for the first time Holmes truly realised how irritating he must have been himself when Watson was trying to pull him out of the various funks he’d fallen into over the years.

To make things worse, Watson didn’t even seem to be interested in talking to him because of their shared history, but rather in spite of it. Holmes frequently found himself being complimented by his old friend, in ways that couldn’t be mistaken as anything innocent. This Watson was far more open, far less restrained…any other time, Holmes would have been fascinated by the difference upbringing apparently made on a person’s personality, but in this case it was only vaguely appalling.

With each hour that passed, Holmes found it harder to reconcile this ‘Joseph Bell’ with the Watson he had known and cared about. Yet he couldn’t give up. Not now.

That wasn’t to say, of course, that the new Watson didn’t intrigue him. There was something refreshing about talking to a man with so little restraint, so few fears about society. Under other circumstances, Holmes was sure he could have been good friends with this man. Yet he couldn’t help himself: he yearned for the conversation of his old friend. It almost physically hurt, being so close to Watson and yet unable to reach him.

At one point, lying in bed with his mind working feverishly on a solution, Holmes even contemplated repeating past mistakes and seducing the new Watson into returning with him. Except that he knew from experience how that would turn out if it worked, how hurt and betrayed the real Watson would feel. What he’d done to Watson before had been the lowest of the low, a cruel manipulation of his feelings, and Holmes was in no rush to put his friend through that again;

Besides, whatever was he to do if he succeeded in tempting Watson back to London but not restoring his memory? This irritatingly stubborn version of Watson would most likely still refuse to see Mary and Holmes would be forced to leave London in order to prevent the poor woman finding out that her husband was not only alive, but just round the corner.

He was running out of both time and ideas. And Sir Harry was being no use at all. If anything, he seemed to be revelling in Holmes’ failure to persuade Watson to leave. Watson had explained all about Sir Harry’s interest in having a male companion to discuss sports with, but Holmes was positive that the baronet wanted more from Watson now that he’d got to know him better.

Blasted man. How dare he covet Watson like that, when Watson blatantly belonged to him?

His thoughts screeched to a stop. What?

Yes, he counted Watson as his closest, if not only, real friend. And yes, of course he was attracted to him – you’d have to be blind not to be and it had hardly been a chore dragging into bed that night.

But as he’d told Watson the next morning, he just wasn’t interested in having a relationship. Least of all with Watson, who tended to fall in love all too quickly when the opportunity arose. Before Holmes knew what had hit him they’d be acting like an old married couple.

He ignored the voices telling him they’d been doing that already.

Holmes was an intellectual. He didn’t need attentive partners messing up his thought processes and clouding his judgement. The fact that his flirtations with Irene had not come anywhere near to being a real relationship was not entirely her fault, after all.

He wanted his friend back. That was all.

* * *

Joseph sighed, flicking through the pages of his book with little enthusiasm. He’d invited Sherlock to stay for a few days with the singular intention of enticing him into bed – there was something about the way the man looked at him that made Joseph sure he’d wanted his previous incarnation too.

Yet every time he thought he was getting close to succeeding, Sherlock deftly turned the subject round to his nonexistent return to London. It was beyond irritating.

Perhaps the worst thing was that Joseph was pretty sure he wanted more than a quick tumble between the sheets with Sherlock. The man made him laugh, made him feel like he was worth something. Being the sole focus of the detective's gaze was like being the centre of the world.

After only a few days with his old friend, Joseph wanted him to be a part of the new life he was building for himself here. They could easily keep their relationship a secret from the general public; if his previous self and Sherlock had lived platonically together in London for so many years without anyone passing comment, then Joseph was sure that they could easily accomplish the same thing living out here in the countryside.

In fact, reading the cases published in _The Strand_ by John Watson, Joseph was amazed that they hadn’t attracted more attention from the authorities. The awestruck commentary of Watson had clearly been the words of a man hopelessly in love with his flatmate, whether he realised it himself or not.

Joseph was prepared to offer Sherlock nearly anything he wanted in order to capture his interest. But the one thing the detective wanted from him was the one thing Joseph was not prepared to give.

Sherlock kept reminding Joseph of Mary, and he certainly felt guilty about leaving her on her own. But surely it would only be worse for her, having to live with someone who wasn’t the man she’d married? To share a bed with a stranger and spend the next however many months reminding him who their acquaintances were?

Far better, surely, to have her think he was dead and let her make a nice clean break of it. He’d send her money through Holmes, make sure she was kept out of the work house. She’d move on.

If only Holmes would!

Letting out a snarl of frustration, Joseph slammed the book shut, wincing as a few loose pages fluttered out. Gently pushing them back into place, he returned the book to its gap on the shelf and pored over some of the other titles in the library, humming under his breath as he looked for something to distract himself.

“No Mr Holmes today?” The voice came from right beside him and Joseph nearly jumped a mile before he realised it was only Harry.

“Harry!” He gasped, pressing a hand over his thumping heart. “You scared me! But no, no Mr Holmes today. Why?”

“You’ve been inseparable these last few days.” Harry pointed out, leaning against one of the stacks. “I’ve only seen you at lunch and dinner, and even then Mr Holmes kept interjecting.”

Joseph paused, studying Harry thoughtfully.

“You don’t like him, do you?” He realised. Harry shrugged uncomfortably, looking embarrassed at having been caught out.

“Not really. It’s hard to like anyone whose sole purpose in being here is to take you away from me.” He admitted. Joseph smiled gently.

“I’m not going back to London, Harry. You don’t have to worry about losing your cricket buddy.”

“Is that all I’d be losing?” Harry asked seriously.

“What?” Before he could ask Harry what he meant, Joseph found himself being propelled backwards, pinned against the bookcase and thoroughly kissed. Frozen in shock, he didn’t respond for a good few moments. By that point his body had decided to go with the flow and Joseph realised to his surprise that he was kissing Harry back.

Burying his hands in Harry’s hair, Joseph wondered why this felt so familiar to him…as if something like this had happened to him before. He tried to concentrate on the hands Harry was stroking along his back yet the idea remained, niggling away at him until all he could think about was how similar this was to…to what?

In his mind’s eye, he could see himself being pushed back against an old grandfather clock, kissed with a vigour that quite frankly put Harry to shame. He watched, detached, as the attacker ground his hips against his other self’s, laughing quietly as dream Joseph moaned. The man pulled back, and Joseph realised with a start that it was Sherlock.

Crashing back to awareness, Joseph began to struggle, pushing Harry away from him.

“Joseph?” asked Harry, clearly bewildered. Joseph groaned in frustration, running his hands through his hair and not caring that he was probably leaving it sticking up.

“I’m sorry, Harry, I can’t. When you’re kissing me, it’s not you I’m thinking about. I can’t do that to you.” He said wretchedly, leaning back against the shelves in an attempt to catch his breath.

“It’s him, isn’t it? That Sherlock Holmes.”

Joseph blinked, looking up to see Harry smiling self-deprecatingly at him.

“I knew it. Before he turned up, I thought we were heading in the right direction. But ever since he came here, you’ve talked of nothing but him. I hoped I could distract you from him…but I see I left it far too late.”

“Harry…I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, Joseph. I’m not so vain as to always expect to have things my own way. And I meant what I told you the other day – you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. This hasn’t changed anything.”

Joseph smiled, grateful to have found as firm a friend as Harry had turned out to be. He gladly took the hand Harry offered him, shaking it firmly.

“You’re a good man, Harry.”

“Yet apparently not good enough.”

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

“I’ve been here nearly a week now, you know.” Holmes said quietly to Watson as they strolled through the gardens. Watson raised an eyebrow, shrugging slightly.

“And? I can count too, you know.”

“I can’t stay here forever. Mrs Hudson will start to worry. And I promised Mary that I’d come back with news.”

“Can we…can we not talk about this for a while? Just this once, can we please just enjoy the sunshine?” Watson pleaded. Holmes studied his face, sighing at the mulish expression he could see was beginning to form.

“Very well. For a little while. But we must come to a decision soon.”

Watson just rolled his eyes, veering left along another path and forcing Holmes to follow him.

“Watson? Where are you…” Holmes’ protest trailed off as he realised what Watson had led them to. “Fascinating. I had no idea Sir Harry kept a hedge maze.”

“It’s apparently the largest in the county.” Watson grinned, starting forward only for Holmes to catch him by the elbow and jerk him back.

“Is this wise? Dinner will be served in an hour or two.” He pointed out. How strange that nowadays he was the sensible one and Watson the one who needed keeping in line.

Watson snorted, rolling his eyes again.

“It’s not that large. And besides, as long as we always take the left turning we’ll be out in no time.”

“I’m not sure that’s quite right. And besides, can your leg really take that much walking?”

“I’m not an invalid. And I thought that your analytical brain would make short work of a simple maze anyway.”

Holmes sighed, reluctantly following Watson into the maze. He had a feeling he was going to regret this.

* * *

“Ah…ah…dear God this hurts!” Watson complained, panting as he did his best to keep moving. Holmes rolled his eyes, offering his shoulder as support.

“I warned you. I said you weren’t up for this.”

“How was I to know my leg would decide to give out in the middle of this blasted maze?” Watson demanded, gritting his teeth as his next step sent a jarring bolt of agony up his spine.

“You need your cane. You always did need it for longer distances.” Holmes remembered, guiding Watson down the corridor he suspected would lead them to the centre. And if Sir Harry was any kind of traditionalist at all, in the centre they would find a…aha! A nice stone bench for Watson to give his leg a rest.

“Oh thank God.” Watson sighed, groaning in relief as he was finally able to sit down and take the weight off his leg. “I didn’t think I was going to make it.”

“You wouldn’t have, if I hadn’t been here.” Holmes pointed out, poking Watson in the side. Watson batted him away irritably, though the twinkle in his eye showed he wasn’t really annoyed.

“The picture of modesty as always, I see.”

“Why of course. You know me Watson, I…”

“Stop it.” Watson said suddenly, tensing up. Holmes paused, unsure what he’d done to provoke such a reaction.

“Stop what?” He pushed when it became apparent no other comment was forthcoming.

“Stop treating me like him. You say I know you, but the thing is I don’t. And I can’t find out because you insist on pretending I’m your old friend.”

“Watson…”

“Exactly! I keep telling you Sherlock, I can never be him. I’m sorry that you’ve lost your friend, but nothing you’ve done has prompted even the slightest hint of memory from me. Watson’s gone for good – you have to accept that.” Watson exclaimed.

Holmes stared at him, his grip on the underside of the bench so tight that his hands shook with the force of it. He refused to believe it. He’d come so close to losing him so many times…in this year alone, he’d nearly lost Watson to explosives, his own stupidity and the Thames. There was no way he was just going to accept that he’d lost his friend when Watson was sitting right there.

“I’m sorry. But you have to accept this. You keep telling me we need to come to a decision about me returning to London, but as far as I’m concerned the decision was made the day you first suggested it. You just need to find a way to accept it.”

“And Mary?” Holmes pressed, concentrating on keeping his voice steady. “She’s pregnant, you know. I wasn’t going to tell you until you’d made the right decision, but since you’re intent on being an idiot…”

Watson reeled back, eyes wide and disbelieving.

“She’s pregnant? I…no. It’s not going to affect my decision. How can I raise a child that isn’t really mine? Mary’s better off without me. I’ll just have to find a way to send her money, that’s all.”

Holmes swallowed hard. If he’d ever doubted it, there was the proof. Even if Watson had somehow been able to behave so callously towards his wife, there was no way he could have turned his back on his own child. But if that was so, then that meant…

“It’s going to be alright.” Joseph murmured, pulling Holmes close and coaxing him into leaning against his shoulder. “I can never be the man you knew, but I’m still going to look after you.”

Holmes shivered, staring sightlessly down at the ground as Joseph stroked his hair. All this effort…all this time and waiting, only to have his hopes crushed so close to the end.

He thought about what it would feel like to return to London alone. To have to go to Mary and lie to her, tell her that her husband had drowned in the Thames. To have to return to Baker Street and tell Mrs Hudson that he hadn’t been able to retrieve Watson.

He thought about having to keep on going, working case after case with no hope of persuading Watson into helping him out ‘one last time’. Having to wander their old haunts and feel Watson’s absence every day whilst knowing that part of him was only just down the river.

There would never be a chance now to rebuild what he had ruined with his behaviour those last few months. The ever tolerant Watson may have forgiven him, but Holmes had never had the chance to try and make things up to him, to restore their friendship to that of the glory days. He’d kept telling himself he had time, that there would be plenty of other dinner invitations for him to accept.

How wrong he had been.

He remembered the night he’d tricked Watson into going to bed with him, how his heart had thundered in his chest and his spirit soared as Watson allowed him to do things that he would have never allowed another man to do to him. It had been intoxicating, having Watson spread out underneath him like that, and Holmes had been sure he’d never felt such a rush with anyone before.

And the next morning Watson had been fully prepared to give up a life of security with Mary, all for a life of secrecy and hiding with Holmes. To think that he’d thrown that all away for the sake of some lofty ideas about the superiority of untainted intellectualism…now that he fully realised just what he’d lost, Holmes bitterly regretted it.

No one had ever understood him like Watson did. And as much as this new Joseph character intrigued him with his lack of inhibitions and his careless attitude, he was not the man Holmes had cared about far more deeply than he’d ever willingly let on.

The man Holmes had – somehow, despite his best efforts not to – accidentally fallen in love with.

Joseph was still carding his fingers through Holmes’ hair and Holmes couldn’t bring himself to protest, so familiar was the action. How many times had Watson done this whilst he was coming down from a cocaine high and wracked with vivid nightmares?

“I know it’s hard.” Joseph was saying softly. “And it was always going to be. But you’ll move past this. And one day you won’t even be able to remember all those little details that make him so different from me.”

Joseph paused, taking a deep breath before he continued.

“Harry kissed me earlier.” He said conversationally. “It wasn’t bad. A bit unexpected maybe, but not bad. I nearly went along with it too, but all I could think about was you. How pathetic is that? I’ve barely known you a week, and suddenly I’m having fantasies about you when someone else is kissing me. Bad form, you know.”

Holmes wondered if was meant to reply. What was he meant to say? He was still searching his brain for an answer when he suddenly became aware that Joseph was manhandling him upright, having seemingly taken his silence as an answer.

“Would it really be so bad?” Joseph asked him, before covering his mouth with a rough kiss.

For a moment, Holmes couldn’t help but kiss back. Joseph tasted just like Watson had, of dark chocolate and bitter tobacco. Holmes could almost have fooled himself had it not been for that twist of arrogance in Joseph’s kiss, for the voices in his head that were screaming wrongwrongwrong, this is wrong.

As much as he wanted to pretend, he couldn’t do it.

“No.” He said firmly, pulling away from Joseph and leaping to his feet in an attempt to put some distance between them. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

Joseph frowned, levering himself up and hobbling towards Holmes.

“Why not? You kissed me back.”

“Because you tasted like Watson.”

“I’m not Watson.”

“That’s the problem.”

They regarded each other in silence for a moment, gazes meeting and communicating everything their mouths weren’t saying.

_I think I’m falling for you._

_Please don’t make this harder._

_We can make this work._

_You can’t replace him._

_Don’t do this._

_I love him._

Joseph finally snorted, folding his arms and turning his head away in disgust.

“I think you better leave.”

“The trains will be stopping soon.”

“Then leave in the morning. I don’t care.”

Holmes took a step forward, reaching for Joseph’s arm and biting his lip when the other man smacked his hand away with a snarl.

“Don’t.”

“I really am sorry…”

“Just go.”

Holmes left Joseph to gather the shards of his broken pride in private.

* * *

Dinner that night was awkward, perhaps not surprising considering that in the space of a single day three of them had been spurned by their loved ones in some way. Joseph had turned down Harry for Holmes. Joseph had rejected Holmes' requests for him to return to his previous life. Holmes had refused Joseph’s advances because he wasn’t Watson. Now all they needed was for Holmes to kiss Eleanor and they’d have the complete set.

Sir Harry, in his defence, was clearly trying to make the best out of a bad situation. Every time that the topic of conversation died a horribly painful death he simply introduced a new one, making quips with forced humour and directly asking Holmes and Joseph various questions.

For his part, Joseph just answered most of the questions with noncommittal noises, shooting Holmes wounded looks from under his eyebrows. Holmes answered any questions thrown his way fluently and in exquisite detail, though he had no idea what he was actually saying because he wasn’t really paying attention.

Judging from Sir Harry’s bemused expressions, he wasn’t making much sense.

The tension growing to be too much, the men all excused themselves from the table and retreated to bed early, leaving Eleanor to finish dessert on her own.

Lying in bed, Holmes stared up at the ceiling and counted the miniscule cracks he could just about make out in the plaster, tracing them with his eyes and attempting to make constellations.

He was sure that sleep would remain beyond his reach that night. The knowledge that tomorrow he’d be heading back to London alone weighed heavily upon him, and the idea that Watson was essentially dead kept spinning through his mind relentlessly.

On the other hand, if he didn’t get any sleep he wouldn’t be in best condition tomorrow and he needed to be fully verbal in order to spare Mary’s feelings as best as possible. He was already considering setting up some form of financial support for Mary and the child – he knew Watson would have wanted him to look out for his family.

Listening to the earlier owls begin their nightly hunt, Holmes bunched up the pillow behind his head and shut his eyes tightly, determined to get at least a few hours with Morpheus before cock crow.

The new and improved pillow must have worked, because the next thing Holmes knew he was in the middle of what could only have been a dream.

_Standing in the middle of their apartment, Watson was making a great show of checking his pocket watch, tutting impatiently as Holmes rushed around trying to find something._

_“What are you even looking for, Holmes?” Watson asked exasperatedly, tapping his foot. “We’re going to be late to the concert.”_

_“I…I don’t know.” Holmes frowned, pulling up sharp as he realised._

_“Then you’re far more foolish than I thought, Sherlock.” A woman said loudly, and Holmes turned to find that Watson had been replaced by Adler._

_“Irene?”_

_“Not really. But close enough.”_

_“What happened to Watson?” Irene smiled sadly, plum red lips dark against her pale skin._

_“I think you already know.”_

_“Oh. Then what are you doing here?” He asked, confused. Irene shrugged, leaning close to whisper in his ear._

_“Someone had to warn you about the fire.”_

Holmes jerked awake, unable to get his bearings for a few moments.

Then he smelt the smoke.


	12. Chapter 12

Throwing his dressing gown on over his pyjamas, Holmes rushed out of his room only to run straight into the butler who’d evidently been coming to get him.

“What’s happened?” He demanded, grabbing the other man by the shoulders to prevent him falling over.

“Sir Harry forgot to put his candle out sir, and knocked it over in his sleep. The west wing’s already on fire and the rest of the house is catching fast.”

“Ah. I think a swift evacuation may be in order then?”

“A wise decision, sir.”

Joining the throng of servants hurrying out of the house and onto the relative safety of the far lawn, Holmes spied Sir Harry standing next to his sister. Both of them were pale, gripping onto each other’s arms like their lives depended on it.

“Sir Harry!” Holmes called, battling his way over. The baronet looked up, relief instantly passing over his face as he saw that the detective had got out safely.

“Oh thank god, you’re alright! I was worried you may be a heavy sleeper so I sent Smith to get you.”

“Yes, I bumped into him on my way out, but thanks for the thought.”

“It’s just terrible. How could I have been so stupid?!” Sir Harry exclaimed, wringing his hands miserably. Eleanor pulled him into a hug, face drawn and haggard without her usual make-up.

“It’ll be alright, Harry. Anyone can make a mistake.” She soothed, pressing his face to her shoulder and rocking him like a child. Footsteps from behind made them all turn to see Smith standing there, looking distressed but in control.

“All servants present and accounted for, sir.” He announced. Sir Harry let out a moan of relief, passing a hand over his brow.

“Thank god.” He breathed. “Has word been sent to the town?”

“Hamish and Alan have gone to get help, though I believe the blaze is sufficiently large enough to have attracted attention by now.”

“What about Watson?” Holmes suddenly interrupted, glancing round the lawn. He’d been looking for a while now, but had yet to catch sight of the other man.

“Sir?”

“Joseph, man, Joseph!” He barked, growing increasingly concerned.

“I…I haven’t seen him, sir. I’ve been counting the servants since I escorted you out.” Smith stammered, turning pale. A quick glance at Sir Harry and Eleanor’s stricken faces soon proved that they hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Joseph either.

“Oh God, he must still be in there!” Sir Harry realised, eyes wide. As one they looked back at the burning manor, wincing as the chimney pot chose that moment to come crashing down.

“We have to go back in there.” Holmes announced, tightening his dressing gown belt and rolling up his sleeves. Suddenly aware that no one else was moving, he turned back impatiently. “Well? Come on now, we haven’t got all day!”

“Are you mad? Can’t you see how unstable the place is? It’s suicide!” Sir Harry gasped. Holmes glared, unable to believe that the same man who’d professed to care so much about his newfound companion was willing to let that same companion die in the flames.

“You’d rather he died?”

“Look man, it’s impossible! If you go back in, neither of you will make it back outside alive!” Sir Harry cried. Holmes snorted, shooting the baronet a careless smile.

“Let’s test that theory, shall we?” He took off running, ignoring the cries of protest from behind and the servants who made a grab for him as he sprinted past. On reaching the door he threw up an arm to protect his face, a sheen of sweat instantly breaking out across his forehead as the wall of heat hit him.

The air was dry and hot, making it hard to breathe, and the wooden beams creaked ominously as Holmes dashed up the eastern staircase. He wondered vaguely how much longer the old supports would hold, before wisely deciding that he’d rather not know.

“Watson!” He bellowed, kicking the door to the other man’s bedroom open. “Joseph! Damn it old boy, answer me!”

“Sherlock?” Joseph asked woozily from his seat on the floor, and Holmes cursed. The smoke had obviously got him before he could get out. Slinging an arm over his shoulders, he hauled Joseph to his feet and began moving them down the corridor, more than slightly relieved as Joseph seemed to come round a bit and put more effort into walking for himself.

Somehow managing to stumble down the stairs without either of them breaking a leg, Holmes looked up at the loud metallic screech from above and cursed. Planting his feet solidly against the pine floor, he pushed Joseph as hard as he could.

* * *

Joseph cried out as he was given a hard shove forwards, tripping over his feet and crashing to the floor. Rolling over to demand what the man’s problem was, he gaped at the wall of rubble behind him. A lethal concoction of chandelier glass, wood and tiles, it was obvious that the burning beams had finally given up the ghost and broken, sending the roof crashing down upon them.

Scrambling to his feet, Joseph laid a hand on the blockage, jerking his hand away with a hiss at the scorching heat.

“Sherlock?!” He called frantically, hoping desperately that the man hadn’t been crushed by the falling rubble. “Sherlock!”

“I’m fine!” Sherlock yelled, voice muffled by the mass of debris in the way. “Get out of here, I’ll find another way!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock, you don’t have time!” Joseph snapped, desperately trying to clear the blockage despite the agonising burning.

“Get out!” Sherlock yelled, pausing as Joseph let out a yelp of pain. “Move it, for god’s sake!”

Joseph ignored him, pulling the superheated tiles away and beginning to tug at one of the beams. Arms suddenly wrapped themselves around his middle and he struggled as the owner started pulling him outside.

“No!” He cried, kicking desperately as he was dragged away. “No, we’ve got to get him out of there! We’ve got to…”

“The whole place could collapse at any moment.” Harry hissed, refusing to let go even after they’d made it to the lawn, rightfully concerned that Joseph would just make a dash for the manor again. “He didn’t risk his life just for you to get crushed three feet from the door!”

A gasp rippled through the crowd and the pair looked up to see Sherlock appear at a second floor window, kicking the glass out to make room for him to climb through.

“See, he’s in Eleanor’s room.” Harry soothed, finally letting go of Joseph as he felt the fight drain out of him in relief. “Now all he has to do is climb down the trellis…”

Joseph ignored him, watching the scene intently and swearing as he realised that Sherlock had stopped still with only one leg out the window. The man was looking back into the room, seemingly captivated by something, and Joseph heard Eleanor breathe in sharply beside him.

“Lord help us…I don’t think I turned the gas lamps off in my room.” She whispered. Joseph jerked, eyes widening in horror as he watched Sherlock shift to look back at the crowd.

Even from this distance, Joseph somehow knew that Sherlock was looking straight at him. And that he was smiling.

“No.” He whispered, suddenly realising that the reason Sherlock wasn’t moving was because he already knew he didn’t have time. “No!”

Sherlock inclined his head.

“Hoooolmes!” Watson roared, throwing out an arm in warning as the room exploded behind his friend, sending pieces of burning debris flying through the air. Falling to his knees he punched the ground, doubling over with a furious roar at the agonising realisation that he couldn’t do anything. Trembling, he lifted his head, staring desolately at the burning wreckage of the manor and beginning to laugh.

Of course. How fitting that the moment he remembered everything be the moment he lost Holmes.

His eyes were wet, but only a single tear escaped.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who kept reading this, especially considering how long it's been since we had a Downey!Holmes film! 
> 
> We're finally done!

Sitting on the ground with a blanket thrown round his shoulders, Watson watched dazedly as the last of the fire was smothered by the fire-fighters. All he could see was how the room had exploded behind Holmes, endlessly repeating every time he closed his eyes.

His leg ached, and his bandaged hands burned, but it was nothing compared to the throbbing pain in his chest.

A hand rested gently on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Sir Harry smiling sympathetically at him.

“They say it’s safe to get closer now. We can…we can look for anything worth saving as long as we don’t actually go in the house.”

What he meant was that they could look for any pieces big enough to be recognisably Holmes.

Shivering, Watson allowed the younger man to help him up, limping across the lawn with much the same dazed air as someone who was sleepwalking. He didn’t understand how this could be happening. Holmes always escaped. There had never been a criminal too tough, a stunt too dangerous. In the back of his mind, he had always assumed that he would be the one to go first if he continued aiding Holmes. It was one of the reasons he had stopped upon getting engaged to Mary.

Not paying any real attention to his surroundings, Watson yelped as he tripped over something, knocked breathless by the impact. Lying still until he could catch his breath, he glanced round to see what he’d tripped over and promptly forgot how to breathe again.

Holmes lay stretched across the grass, his hair singed and his clothes virtually non-existent, but his body by some miracle mostly whole. Watson crawled closer, breathing unsteady and eyes filling with horrified tears as he took in the various open wounds where Holmes had been struck by debris, the nasty burns covering most of his left-hand side and back.

“God…” He whispered, reaching out with a trembling hand to touch a pale and unmarked cheek. To his shock it was warm, though the skin remained free of burns. Almost as if…

Eyes wide, he grabbed Holmes’ wrist, fumbling for a pulse and letting out a cry of joy as he found one, weak and thready as it was. He’d survived. Somehow he’d been thrown mostly clean of the blast, just like Watson himself had been with Blackwood’s explosives, and he’d survived.

“Thank you.” He murmured to no one in particular, hands folded in a prayer of thanks to anyone listening. “Thank you.”

* * *

When Holmes woke, the first thing he was aware was that his side was completely numb in the manner only a hospital could pull off.

The second thing was that Joseph was asleep in the chair beside his bed, bent forward at what looked to be a horribly uncomfortable angle and clutching Holmes’s hand.

“Joseph.” He murmured, resting a hand on the other man's head in an attempt to wake him. “Joseph, that hardly looks comfortable.”

“Joseph had to leave suddenly. Hopefully he shouldn’t be back.” Watson replied, lifting his head to smile tiredly at the bedridden detective. Holmes breathed in sharply, fumbling his free hand over to press Watson’s between his own, finding it hard to see through eyes that were suddenly oddly misty.

“Watson?” He asked hoarsely, swallowing hard at the other man’s nod. “Dear God Watson, I’d thought I’d lost you for good this time.”

“Speak for yourself.” They remained in silence for a while after that, thoroughly preoccupied with smiling sillily at each other.

Finally, after an indeterminate time, they seemed to realise that they couldn’t just simply spend the rest of the day staring at each other like a pair of newlyweds. Clearing his throat, Holmes looked away, cheeks suffused with red as he focused his gaze everywhere except on Watson.

“I wasn’t lying back then.” He said roughly. “Back…back before your wedding. I just wanted you to know that I meant every word that night. When I was waiting for the gas to ignite, all I could do was wish I’d told you sooner. So I’m putting the record straight now.”

Watson chuckled slightly, giving Holmes’ hand a squeeze.

“I knew. I didn’t quite realise it, but I think I always knew on some level. You may be a depraved mess of an individual…”

“Thank you.”

“…but you’re not a terrible enough friend to do something like that without the feelings to back it up.”

Holmes smiled weakly, spasming as a fit of coughing struck. Watson stroked his forehead reassuringly, murmuring comforting nonsense words to him until the fit had passed.

“I was a fool, Watson. I could have made you mine that day – you were willing to give up Mary and polite society, all for me. And instead I just pushed you away with pathetic excuses…when we both know that if I was ever truly capable of being in a relationship with someone, it would be with you.” He croaked. Watson tensed, a wretched expression passing over his face.

“I really did love you.” He said tightly. “God help me, I still do. Despite everything you’ve put me through over the years, despite that horrific stunt you pulled and how much that hurt me, I still care about you more than the Church thinks I should. But Mary…”

“I know.” Holmes said simply.

“We’ve shared a bed. She’s carrying my child. I could never let her suffer that dishonour. And how could she support herself? No family would take on a pregnant woman as a governess.” Watson murmured.

“Which just demonstrates how much more honourable a man you are than your alter ego, old boy.” Holmes replied, chuckling faintly at the look of embarrassment that spread over Watson’s face.

“Yet despite everything…I don’t want to give this up. I can’t just let you go like that. But what can we do?”

“Nothing. How long do you think we could hide what was happening from Mary before she found out?” Holmes pointed out reluctantly. “Your wife is an intelligent woman Watson, it could hardly be long. The fall out would rip your family apart. Do you really want to jeopardise your future like that for a man who can’t even say those three words?”

Watson swallowed miserably, shaking his head.

“Lord knows I care about you, Holmes. But I can’t do that to Mary. I just can’t. Which means…”

“Which means we remain friends. You invite me over to dinner and I keep weaselling my way out of it until you snap and drag me over yourself. I’ll keep asking you on cases until you finally give into temptation and come with me. That’s all we can ever be.” Holmes managed. Watson nodded, the hand holding Holmes’ squeezing perhaps a little tighter than was strictly necessary.

“Friends. We can do that.” Pausing, he glanced around to make sure no one was around and leant down to kiss Holmes on the lips.

It was sweet, and it was chaste, and it was goodbye.

* * *

Watson stayed by Holmes’ side the entire three weeks it took for the hospital to release Holmes as fit for travel. He’d been sure to inform Mary of course; within hours of Holmes first being admitted, he’d sent a priority telegram to her explaining the situation and that he was perfectly alright, and another to Mrs Hudson begging her to look after Mary until he and Holmes returned.

Mary had sent back instantly, spending a fortune with the sheer number of letters it took her to fully express her happiness that he was alive. Mrs Hudson, God bless her, had been more than happy to be of assistance, and Watson was in high hopes of finding Mary back to full health by the time he returned home.

They spent most of the journey back in silence, simply enjoying each other’s company in the empty train carriage as it sped towards London. At some point Watson’s hand slipped into Holmes’, though later neither of them would be able to recall the exact moment when it had done so.

Luck was on their side and it took mere moments to find a cab to take them back to Baker Street. Watson helped a still fragile Holmes out of the carriage, seeing him to the door of 221B and making sure that his friend had got his balance before he let go. They smiled sadly, nodding their heads in wordless farewell, and when Watson looked back through the cab window he saw Holmes offer him a silent wave with the arm not in a sling.

Arriving at his and Mary’s house, Watson opened the door only to nearly be knocked backwards by the explosion of taffeta that tackled him. Laughing, he wrapped his arms around Mary tightly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head and refraining from pointing out that she was squeezing him far too tightly for it to be comfortable. The first thing Mary did when she pulled back was to take his hand and rest it on the soft bulge hidden beneath the cunningly placed ruffles round her stomach.

Watson beamed, pulling his wife in for a heartfelt kiss and guiding her inside. They’d put on enough of a show for the neighbours for one day.

Mary was still far too thin for a woman as far along as she was, but she was no longer as dangerously underweight as when Holmes had seen her. It was, according to her, entirely down to Mrs Hudson and her refusal to take no for an answer. The first thing she’d done upon arriving was send Mary’s mother home and things had only got better from then. Watson chuckled at the image of Mrs Hudson booting his mother-in-law from the house, inwardly marvelling at the woman’s strength.

It would have taken a great deal more than polite requests to get Mrs Morstan to leave before she wanted.

It wasn’t until much later - when Mary was working on her sewing and he was occupied with staring out the window – that he realised Mary had noticed that something was wrong.

“You know John,” she began, not looking up at him as she deftly rethreaded her needle. “There’s been something of a shadow about your eyes since you came back.”

Watson started, turning round to gaze at her with surprised eyes.

“It’s nothing, dear. I’m probably just tired from looking after Holmes all month.” He pulled a face and Mary laughed. They both knew how poor a patient Holmes made.

“I could understand that. Although that particular shadow has really been there since we got married. It’s just darkened somewhat.”

Watson swallowed, flying across the room to crouch at her side, ignoring the twinge of protest his bad leg made at the position. He really would have to look into finding a new cane soon.

“Mary? You don’t think I regret marrying you, do you?” He asked anxiously. God, had she been thinking that all this time? How atrocious had his behaviour been to persuade her that it was so?

Mary smiled softly, keeping her eyes on her careful stitching.

“No. I don’t think you do.” She reassured him and Watson breathed a sigh of relief.

“Although,” she continued casually, “it’s a fact of life that sometimes you can’t help the people you care about.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The heart doesn’t behave like it does in silly romance novels. It’s perfectly capable of loving two people at once.”

“Mary, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Watson blustered. Mary shook her head in amusement, putting down her sewing and putting her hand over her husband’s.

“I’m not going to stop you going on cases with Holmes, you know.” She promised. Watson blinked, growing increasingly bewildered.

“That’s generous of you dear, but I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

“You’re a grown man. You don’t need a curfew.” She said simply, hesitating slightly before continuing. “And…I understand that occasionally casework may require you to stay over at Holmes’ for the night.”

Watson stiffened, staring at Mary in shock as what she was trying to tell him sunk in. She was implying that…she was giving her permission for him to…

Mary finally raised her gaze, looking worn and quivery but not at all like she was regretting her decision.

“Mary…” He whispered, totally in awe of this wonderful woman who had agreed to be his wife. To not only accept that her husband had feelings for another man, but to also offer him a chance to sate those feelings…the mind boggled.

She smiled bravely.

“He claimed you first – I knew from the moment I saw you two together at The Royal. Even if neither of you realised that.” She smoothed his hair back from his face, kissing his forehead gently. “You share a special bond…and I’m not going to get in the way of that.”

“I love you. I really do.” Watson said honestly, kissing her softly and trying to communicate the gratitude he could surely never express in words. “You will never be second best. We share a special bond too, you and I.”

Mary laughed, ducking her head shyly.

“To hold second place in your heart would still make me the luckiest woman in all of London.”

Watson chuckled, his heart feeling like it may burst as he held his wife close. The angels had been smiling on him the day he met Mary. What other woman in England would have been so accepting of his dilemma? She was a wise, beautiful lady, and he truly was blessed to be able to start a family with her.

“Never mind that, my dear.” He replied. “Being your husband makes me the luckiest man in all the world.”

* * *

Thoroughly engrossed in an article on phrenology, Holmes completely missed the urgent pounding at the door and Mrs Hudson’s exclamation of surprise. It wasn’t until the running on the stairs, in a gait so familiarly uneven that it could only be one person, that he put down his journal, and even then he took care to bookmark it for easy access later.

The door to the flat burst open to reveal a Watson who was panting desperately, making quite the sight as he held up a finger in a plea for a moment's rest, collapsing against the doorframe as he attempted to catch his breath. Holmes watched in vague amusement, wondering what on earth could have been so urgent that it required Watson to get himself into such a state.

Then Watson looked up, grinning madly from ear to ear, and somehow Holmes just knew.

It took a mere three strides to cross the room and gather Watson into his arms, and when he did so it felt like coming home.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! This was originally published in 2010 - although it was originally carefully crafted to fit in with film canon, the second film made that impossible. Ah well.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr under [rubychan05](http://rubychan05.tumblr.com/). I'm a mix of mainly Les Miserables, Musketeers, Sherlock and Teen Wolf at the moment, though obviously these things change!


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